onyma," Kew warned her. "Pause and consider what you are
going to say."

"Consideration only unearths difficulties," laughed Anonyma. "Best go
forward in faith and fearlessness."

She was under the impression that she constantly laughed in a nicely
naughty way at Kew's excessive conventionality.

As they drew nearer to the cliff, it grew tamer and tamer. The house,
too, became dangerously like a villa; a super-villa, to be sure, and
not in its first offensive youth, but still closely connected with the
villa tribe. Its complexion was a bilious yellow, and it had
red-rimmed windows. It was close to the sea, however, and its windows,
with their blinds drawn down against the sun, looked like eyes downcast
towards the beach.

There was no lodge, and the Family walked in silence through the gate.
Mr. Russell's Hound went first with a defiant expression about his tail.
That expression cost him dear. Inside the gate there stood a large vulgar
dog, without a tail to speak of. Its parting was crooked, its hair was in
its eyes. All these personal disadvantages the Family had time to note,
while the dog gazed incredulously at Mr. Russell's Hound.

A Pekinese dog never wears country clothes. It always looks as if it had
its silk hat and spats on. If I were a country dog, who had never even
smelt a Piccadilly smell, I should certainly bite all dogs of the type of
Mr. Russell's Hound.

I could hardly describe what followed as a fight. Although I have always
loved stories of giant-killers, from David downwards, and should much
like to write one, I cannot in this case pretend that Mr. Russell's Hound
did anything but call for help. Anonyma's umbrella, Kew's cane, and Mr.
Russell's stick did all they could towards making peace, but the big dog
seemed to have set itself the unkind task of mopping up a puddle with Mr.
Russell's Hound. The process took a considerable time. And it was never
finished, for the mistress of the house interrupted it.

She was rather a fat person, apparently possessing the gift of authority,
for the sound of her call reached her dog through the noise of battle. He
saw that his aim was not one to achieve in the presence of an audience.
He disengaged his teeth from the mane of Mr. Russell's Hound.

"Is your dog much hurt?" asked the mistress of the house, and handed
Anonyma a slate.

Anonyma scanned this unexpected gift nervously. She was much more used to
taking other people aback than to being taken aba