The desire of each was to turn and fly, but the necessity upon them was to face their joint mishap and see it through.  Crimson, the young man mumbled apologies for his state of unreadiness to receive ladies; equally crimson, Rose begged him not to mention it, and apologised for her own untimely call.

“Miss Pennycuick, I believe?” stammered he, with an awkward bow.

“Miss Rose Pennycuick—­yes,” said she, struggling through her overwhelming embarrassment.  “I called—­I wanted—­I—­I—­might I speak to you for just one minute, Mr Breen?”

She had lived beside him long enough to know his name, also his occupation.  The Breens were drapers.  Their shop in the city was not to be compared with Buckley & Nunn’s or Robertson & Moffat’s, but it was a good shop in its way, as this good home of the proprietors testified.

“Certainly,” said young Mr Breen, whose name was Peter.  “With pleasure.  By all means.  Walk in, Miss Pennycuick.”

She walked into a gorgeous drawing-room, where all was of the best, and wore that shining air of furniture too valuable for daily use.  Mr Peter drew up a cream linen blind that was one mass of lace insertion, and apologised anew for his unseemly costume.

“The fact is, Miss Pennycuick—­I hope you won’t be shocked at my doing such things on Sunday—­I was cleaning my gun.  There is a holiday this week, and I am going shooting with a friend.  It was he I expected to see when I went to the door in this state.”  “Oh,” said Rose, more at her ease, “I often do things on Sundays; I don’t see why not.  In fact, I am doing something now—­”

She cast about for words wherein to explain her errand, while he shot a stealthy glance at her.  Though not beautiful, like Deb and Francie, she was a wholesome, healthy, bonnie creature, and he was as well aware of her position in life as she was of his.

“I came, Mr Breen—­I thought there were only servants in the house—­I am sure you must wonder how I can take such a liberty, such an utter stranger, but I wanted to speak about that poor dog of yours—­”

“Bruce—­ah!” Enlightenment seemed to come to the young man.  “You have called to complain of the row he made last night.  We were only saying at breakfast—­”

“No, no, indeed!” Rose spread out protesting hands, and ceased to feel embarrassed.  “Not to complain of him, poor dear, but—­but—­if you will forgive such impertinence, to ask somebody—­I thought I should see your cook, who looks kind—­to do something to make his life a little less miserable.”

“Miserable!” Mr Breen broke in, and sat up, stiffening, as if half inclined to be offended, even with this very nice young lady.

“There isn’t a dog in the country better off.  We had his place in the yard built on purpose for him; had his kennel made to a special design —­” “A lovely kennel!  I never saw a better.”

“Clean straw every few days; all his food cooked—­”