But the unfortunate trade wind again fluttered her skirt, and again he backed away--not so far, this time, with much less of a bristle of his neck and shoulder hair, and with no more of a snarl than a mere half-baring of his fangs.
"He's afraid of your skirt," Harley insisted.

"Look at him! He wants to come to you, but the skirt keeps him away.

Tuck it under you so that it won't flutter, and see what happens." Villa Kennan carried out the suggestion, and Jerry came circumspectly, bent his head to her hand and writhed his back under it, the while he sniffed her feet, stocking-clad and shoe-covered, and knew them as the feet which had trod uncovered the ruined ways of the village ashore.
"No doubt of it," Harley agreed.

"He's white-man selected, white-man bred and born.

He has a history.