'Oh, not him, Miss Sichliffe!' Attley cried. 'He was overlaid or had sunstroke or something. They call him The Looney in the kennels. Besides, he squints.'
'I think that's rather fetching,' she answered. Neither Malachi nor I had ever seen a squinting dog before.
'That's chorea—St. Vitus's dance,' Mrs. Godfrey put in. 'He ought to have been drowned.'
'But I like his cast of countenance,' the girl persisted.
'He doesn't look a good life,' I said, 'but perhaps he can be patched up.' Miss Sichliffe turned crimson; I saw Mrs. Godfrey exchange a glance with her married daughter, and knew I had said something which would have to be lived down.
'Yes,' Miss Sichliffe went on, her voice shaking, 'he isn't a good life, but perhaps I can—patch him up. Come here, sir.' The misshapen beast lurched toward her, squinting down his own nose till he fell over his own toes. Then, luckily, Bettina ran across the lawn and reminded Malachi of their puppyhood. All that family are as queer as Dick's hatband, and fight like man and wife. I had to separate them, and Mrs. Godfrey helped me till they retired under the rhododendrons and had it out in silence.
'D'you know what that girl's father was?' Mrs. Godfrey asked.
'No,' I replied. 'I loathe her for her own sake. She breathes through her mouth.'
'He was a retired doctor,' she explained. 'He used to pick up stormy young men in the repentant
