CHAPTER 25

She had changed into a brown patterned muslin dress that stretched tightly over her

rather wide hips as Max helped her onto the platform in New York. At the newsstand, she bought a copy of 'Town Tattle' and a movie magazine, and at the station drug store,

some cold cream and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the echoing drive, she let four taxis pass before selecting a new one, lavender-colored with grey upholstery, and in

this, we slid out from the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately, she turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the front glass.

"I want to get one of those dogs," she said earnestly. "I want to get one for the apartment. They're nice to have—a dog."

We backed up to a grey old man who bore a comical resemblance to John D. Rockefeller.

In a basket swung from his neck, cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed.

"What kind are they?" Mrs. Foster asked eagerly as he approached the taxi window.

"All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?"

"I'd like to get one of those police dogs; I don't suppose you have that kind?"

The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand, and drew up a wriggling puppy by the back of its neck.

"That's no police dog," said Max.

"No, it's not exactly a police dog," the man said with disappointment. "It's more of an airedale." He passed his hand over the brown wash-rag of a back. "Look at that coat. Some coat.