"He has the most exquisite white curly hair and two light brown patches on his back--and, oh! _such_ lovely dark eyes! They call him a Scotch terrier.

When he is well his appetite is truly wonderful--nothing comes amiss to him, sir, from pate de foie gras to potatoes.

He has his enemies, poor dear, though you wouldn't think it.
People who won't put up with being bitten by him (what shocking tempers one does meet with, to be sure!) call him a mongrel.

Isn't it a shame?
Please come in and see him, sir; my Lady will be tired of waiting." Another journey to the door followed those words, checked instantly by a serious objection.
"Stop a minute! You must tell me what his temper is, or I can do nothing for him." Isabel returned once more, feeling that it was really serious this time.
Her gravity was even more charming than her gayety.

As she lifted her face to him, with large solemn eyes, expressive of her sense of responsibility, Hardyman would have given every horse in his stables to have had the privilege of taking her in his arms and kissing her.
"Tommie has the temper of an angel with the people he likes," she said.
"When he bites, it generally means that he objects to strangers.