What, his companion laughingly suggested, would have happened if Beauty had really escaped, and he, Mr. Heatherbloom, had been forced to return to the house without her?  What?  Mr. Heatherbloom started.  He might lose his position, n’est-cepas? He did not answer.

The idea was born; why not lose Beauty?  No, better still, Naughty; the prime favorite, Naughty.  He looked into Naughty’s eyes, and they seemed full of liquid reproach.  Naughty had been his friend—­supposititiously, and to abandon him now to the world, a cold place devoid of French lamb chops?  A hard place for homeless dogs and men, alike!  About to waive the temptation, Mr. Heatherbloom paused; the idea was capable of modification or expansion.  Most ideas are.

But he shortly afterward dismissed the entire matter from his mind; it would, at best, be but a compromise, an evasion of the pact he had made with himself.  It was not to be thought of.  At this moment his companion swayed and Mr. Heatherbloom had just time to put out his arm; then helped her to a bench.

She partly recovered; it was nothing, she remarked bravely.  One gets sometimes a little faint when—­it was the old, old story of privation and want that now fell with seeming reluctance from her lips.  Mr. Heatherbloom had become all attention.  More than that he seemed greatly distressed.  A woman actually in need, starving—­no use mincing words!—­in Central Park, the playground of the most opulent metropolis of the world.  It was monstrous; he tendered her his purse, with several weeks’ pay in it.  Her reply had a spirited ring; he felt abashed and returned the money to his pocket.  She sat back with eyes half-closed; he saw now that her face looked drawn and paler than usual.

He, thought and thought; had he not himself found out how difficult it was to get a position, to procure employment without friends and helpers?  He, a man, had walked in search of it, day after day and felt the griping pangs of hunger; had wished for night, and, later, wished for the morn, only to find both equally barren.

Suddenly he spoke—­slowly, like a man stating a proposition he has argued carefully in his own mind.  She listened, approved, while hope already transfigured her face.  She would have thanked him profusely but he did not remain to hear her.  In fact, he seemed hardly to see her now; his features had become once more reserved and introspective.

He reappeared at the Van Rolsen house that day without Naughty.  Miss Van Rolsen, when she heard the news, burst into tears; then became furious.  She was sure he had sold Naughty, winner of three blue ribbons, and “out of the contest” no end of times because superior to all competition!

A broken leash!  Fiddlesticks!  She penned advertisements wildly and summoned her niece.  That young lady responded to protestations and questions with a slightly indifferent expression on her proud languid features.  What did she think of it?  She didn’t really know; her manner said she really didn’t care.