on't know from Adam," when some words of my
own jumped into my head. I could hear myself saying, "I must first find
the dog," and then I knew that the giver of Vivace wasn't Adam. But
luckily I hadn't thought before I spoke, so it was no harm to let it
rest at that; and I just sat and played with my new toy while Mrs. Ess
Kay and her brother jabbered about him excitedly.

"It must be Tom Doremus," said she. "He's the only man I let you know
well enough on board to take such a liberty."

I thought of another man she hadn't wanted to let me know; but I rubbed
my chin on Vivace's ear, which felt like a wall-flower, and kept quiet.

"Cheek of Doremus," remarked Mr. Parker. "He's a Josher from wayback.
How does he know Lady Betty likes dogs? I should send the little brute
off to the Dogs' Home."

"If Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox makes me do that, I shall have to go with
him--and stop with him, too," said I. And I almost hated Mr. Parker for
a minute in spite of the walking-stick roses and the snowstorm of
gardenias upstairs.

"Of course, you shall keep the dog, if you want to," said Mrs. Ess Kay,
"unless we find out that he's been sent by someone undesirable, and
then of course the Duchess would expect me to see that you gave him
back."

"I _feel_ somehow that we shall never find out," I said, and I hugged
Vivace so hard, without meaning to, that he gave a tiny grunt. But he
didn't mind a bit, and licked my hand with a tongue that was like a
sweet little sample of pink plush.

I was suddenly so happy with my surprise-present that I forgave America
for having imaginative reporters, and wasn't homesick for the pony or
for Berengaria and her puppies, or anything.

Vivace went out with us in the electric carriage, and even Mrs. Ess Kay
had to admire him as he sat straight up in my lap, like a bronze statue
of a dog. "He's a thoroughbred, anyhow," she remarked. "He can't have
cost a penny less than five hundred dollars, so whoever the anonymous
giver is, he must be a rich man."

I'm rather hazy about dollars, still, but when I heard that, I felt
myself go red. I knew well enough that the giver--who wasn't Adam--was
very far from being a rich man, and I couldn't bear to think that he
had perhaps squandered some hard-earned savings on buying such an
extravagant present for me. But the more I thought of it--which I did
all the way down to the shops--the more I thought it impossible that a
man who had been obliged to cross the Atl