It were best to describe them both now, and so get it all over.

Whilst waiting one exeat upon Waterloo station, the girl had annexed unto herself a holy terror in the shape of a brindle bull-pup.

The hilarious quadruped had twined its leash about one leg of its master—­who was an alien from Wapping—­and the spout of a zinc watering-can which a porter had left upon the platform; for which joke it had received a vile cuff on its wrinkled physiognomy from the alien master.

Like some avenging goddess, Damaris, the ladylike, almost finished product of Onslow House, sprang straight at the man, smote him with the flat of the hand upon the face, and pounced upon the yelping pup.

“Take your leg out of the dog’s chain, you idiot!” she cried, her eyes blazing, her perfect teeth flashing in a positive snarl.  “Be quick; don’t be so clumsy.  How dare you hit a dog.  He hit him,” she announced to the interested, sympathetic crowd.  “Hit him on his lovely face.

“You gif that dog back to me, missie,—­he’s mine.”

“He’s mine.  I’ve got him, and my mother is one of the heads of the Society that protects children.”

“That’s got nothing to do wif dogs.”

“This is a puppy, so it’s a child,” had come the decisive reply.  “And I’ll buy him, though I needn’t really, if I refer it to the Society.”

“I’ll take ten poun’ for ’im.”

The child fished for her purse, which, contained half-a-crown and her ticket, and flung it with a supreme gesture of contempt at the man’s feet; then, squeezing up the dog in her arms, tore a simple gold bracelet off her left arm and flung it after the purse.

“Worv two poun’ at the mos’.”

Then, from out of a first-class carriage of the train waiting to start for Southampton slowly descended Olivia, Duchess of Longacres.

The girl and the alien had their backs turned to her, but the crowd had seen; had looked; started to laugh, and then had become silent, so great was the dignity of the old lady.

Clad in a voluminous grey taffeta gown, from under which peeped little crimson shoes; covered with a huge loose ermine wrap, with the black poke-bonnet on top of the outrageous golden perruque and the grey parrot bobbing up and down excitedly upon her shoulder, she stood silently taking in the scene.

There was the light of battle in the famous hawk’s-eyes as she listened to the girl defending the pup, and her splendid teeth shone in a grin of enjoyment as she suddenly rattled her ebony stick upon the alien’s ankle-bones, those most tender bits of anatomical scaffolding.

There was a yell of pain as the alien backed hastily into the arms of a lusty youth who had continuously besought Damaris, to allow him “ter put it acrorst ther blighter’s h’ugly mug,” and a cry of delight as Damaris ran to the old lady’s side and, squeezing the pup in one arm, made the sweetest little reverence in the pretty continental way before she excitedly wrung her god-mother’s hand.