—Cervantes 10. EVEN AS THE KEY TURNED IN the hall door, Talleyrand knew with a poodle’s sixth sense that something was wrong. He yawned, wagged a tentative tail, and hastily began to search his conscience. True, there was the matter of the tom-up newspaper, but he had already had his scolding for that. Talley could think of no other misdemeanor, and wisely decided that his mistress was upset about something out of his ken. But it might be just as well, he thought, to omit the joyful leaping and barking ceremonies usually attendant upon her return. Nor was sympathy indicated, considering the way Miss Withers rushed around turning off lights and slamming doors and talking to herself. When Talley heard her washing her hair he knew that the storm warnings were flying indeed, and he folded his paws over his whiskery apricot muzzle and played very dead dog. The schoolteacher finally climbed into her own bed with the everlasting War and Peace, but as usual she bogged down in chapter three of that celebrated classic.
