yellow as you in my life--except Lady Minturn's wig. I believe you're
dyed!"

The note, written in a peculiarly dashing hand on thick mauve paper, was
short:


"Ma Fille," it ran, "good morning to you--the first of many
happy ones with us. Yellow Dog Papillon brings this to you. He is an
angel dog, and loves you already, as does your Victor Joyselle,

"Beau-Papa."


Yellow Dog Papillon, having come to stay, was sitting up, as if he
never under any circumstances passed his time in another way. His rough,
pumpkin-coloured front feet hung genteelly limp, and his tail slowly
described a half circle on the highly polished floor.

Brigit laughed again, and patted his head. "Does he expect an answer?"
she asked seriously; but before the dog could tell her what he thought
the door opened, and Madame Joyselle entered, bearing a small lacquered
tray, on which stood a tiny coffee-pot, cup and saucer, plate and
cream-jug, of gleaming white porcelain, the edges of which glittered in
a narrow gold line, and a tall glass vase containing a very large and
faultless gardenia.

"I have brought you your coffee, Lady Brigit," said the little woman,
showing her beautiful teeth in a cheery smile, "and 'ard-boiled eggs.
Théo told me you like them 'ard-boiled. The gardenia is from my