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Updated: April 30, 2025
It was something to ponder over. "Nora, who was that?" asked Mrs. Harrigan. "Who was who?" countered Nora, snuggling the wriggling dachel under her arm and throwing the sunshade across her shoulder. "That fine-looking young man who stood by the door as we passed out. He raised his hat." "Oh, bother! I was looking at Fritz."
The labors of Hercules had never entailed the subjugation of two temperamental women. He rose and proceeded on his quest. Before the photographer's shop he saw a dachel wrathfully challenging a cat on the balcony of the adjoining building.
So he reached down suddenly and put an end to the sharp challenge. The dachel struggled valiantly, for this breed of dog does not make friends easily. "I say, you little Dutchman, what's the row? I'm not going to hurt you. Funny little codger! To whom do you belong?" He turned the collar around, read the inscription, and gently put the puppy on the ground. Nora Harrigan!
If the colonel repeated his invitation to dinner, where there would be only the men folk, why, he'd gladly enough go to that. The women departed at three, for there was to be tennis until five o'clock. When Harrigan was reasonably sure that they were half the distance to the colonel's villa, he put on his hat, whistled to the dachel, and together they took the path to the village.
Near the fountain, on the green, was a third man. He was in the act of folding up an easel and a camp-stool. The tea-drinkers had gone. It was time for the first bell for dinner. The villa's omnibus was toiling up the winding road among the grape-vines. Suddenly Harrigan tilted his head sidewise, and the long silken ears of the dachel stirred.
Along the terrace parapet are tea-tables; a monster oak protects one from the sun. Nature is whole-souled here; she gives often and freely and all she has. Seated on one of the rustic benches, his white tennis shoes resting against the lower iron of the railing, a Bavarian dachel snoozing comfortably across his knees, was a man of fifty. He was broad of shoulder, deep of chest, and clean-shaven.
The artist scowled at the Italian. "Fritz, Fritz; here, Fritz!" The dog struggled in Harrigan's hands and tore himself loose. He went clattering over the path toward the villa and disappeared into the doorway. Nothing could keep him when that voice called. He was as ardent a lover as any, and far more favored. "Oh, you funny little dog! You merry little dachel! Fritz, mustn't; let go!" Silence.
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