“Ambrose! Ambrose dear!” The new Mrs. Pottle put down the book she was reading–Volume Dec to Erd of the encyclopedia.
“Yes, Blossom dear.” Mr. Pottle’s tone was fraught with the tender solicitude of the recently wed. He looked up from his book–Volume Ode to Pay of the encyclopedia.
“Ambrose, we must get a dog!”
“A dog, darling?”
His tone was still tender but a thought lacking in warmth. His smile, he hoped, conveyed the impression that while he utterly approved of Blossom, herself, personally, her current idea struck no responsive chord in his bosom.
“Yes, a dog.”
She sighed as she gazed at a large framed steel-engraving of Landseer’s St. Bernards that occupied a space on the wall until recently tenanted by a crayon enlargement of her first husband in his lodge regalia.
“Such noble creatures,” she sighed. “So intelligent. And so loyal.”
“In the books they are,” murmured Mr. Pottle.
“Oh, Ambrose,” she protested with a pout. “How can you say such a thing? Just look at their big eyes, so full of soul. What magnificent animals! So full of understanding and fidelity and–and
