CHAPTER VI.
A Luncheon Out.
On taking her bicycle to Frogmore, Lesbia found that the capacities of Mr Bummingby the ironmonger had not been overstated; he soon found out what was amiss, set it right, and showed her how to do so for herself another time. While they were standing in the shop-door, Lesbia suddenly exclaimed:—
‘What a glorious white bulldog! I wonder where that gentleman lives he’s following.’
‘It’s the new master of the hounds, miss,’ replied Mr Bummingby.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Sir Richard Robins.’
‘The dog’s?’
‘No, the gentleman’s, miss. The dog’s name is Whiting. They say as Sir Richard’s refused fifty pounds for that dog.’
Lesbia could think of nothing the rest of that day but the white bulldog. Her uncle had some time since promised her a dog of her own, when she should make up her mind as to the sort, and she had made it up now.
‘I should like one just like Whiting, Uncle Spines, a monster, all tusks and wrinkles, with his shoulders a yard apart and his nostrils flat between his eyes; ears uncut, of course.’
