“Last evening after tea,” pursued Miss Murdstone, “I observed the little dog starting, rolling, and growling about the drawing room, worrying something. I said to Miss Spenlow, ‘Dora, what is that the dog has in his mouth? It’s paper.’ Miss Spenlow immediately put her hand to her frock, gave a sudden cry, and ran to the dog. I interposed, and said, ‘Dora, my love, you must permit me.’ ”

Oh Jip, miserable Spaniel, this wretchedness, then, was your work!