— not that I meant to do it, but that I was so full of the subject — by asking Dora, without the smallest preparation, if she could love a beggar?

My pretty, little, startled Dora! Her only association with the word was a yellow face and a nightcap, or a pair of crutches, or a wooden leg, or a dog with a decanter-stand in his mouth, or something of that kind; and she stared at me with the most delightful wonder.

‘How can you ask me anything so foolish?’ pouted Dora. ‘Love a beggar!’

‘Dora, my own dearest!’ said I. ‘I am a beggar!’

‘How can you be such a silly thing,’ replied Dora, slapping my hand, ‘as to sit there, telling such stories? I’ll make Jip bite you!’