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The name of his master made the Baron briefly sad, though he supposed it was nice of people, total strangers, to remember his master. They walked around the block. Near the delicatessen on Lexington Avenue, a man stopped them and in a polite tone asked a question with “the Baron” in it.
    “Yes,” said the young man who held the Baron’s leash.
    The strange man patted the Baron’s head gently, and the Baron recognized his master’s other name “Brockhurst . . . Edward Brockhurst . . .”
    They went on, back towards the awning of the apartment house, towards the awful party. Then the Baron’s ears picked up a tread he knew, then his nose a scent he knew: Marion.
    “Hello! Excuse me . . .” She was closer than the Baron had supposed, because his ears were not what they used to be, nor his eyes for that matter. She talked with the young man, and they all rode up in the elevator.
    The Baron’s heart was pounding with pleasure. Marion smelled nice. Suddenly the whole evening was better, even wonderful, just because Marion had turned up. His master had always loved Marion. And the Baron was well aware that Marion wanted to take him away to live with her.
    There was quite a change in the atmosphere when the Baron and the young man and Marion walked in. The conversation died down, and Bubsy walked forward with a glass of his favorite bubble in his hand, champagne. The young man undid the Baron’s leash.
    “Good evening, Bubsy . . .” Marion was speaking politely, explaining something.
    Some people had said hello to Marion, others were starting up their conversation again in little groups. The Baron kept his eyes on Marion. Could it be possible that she was going to take him away tonight ? She was talking about him. And Bubsy looked flustered. He motioned for Marion to come into one of the other rooms, Bubsy’s bedroom, and the Baron followed at Marion’s heels. Bubsy would have shut the Baron out, but Marion held the door.
    “Come in, Baron!” Marion said.
    The Baron disliked this room. The bed was high, made higher still by pillows, and at the foot of it was the contraption Bubsy used when he had his fits of wheezing and gasping, usually at night. There were two chromium tanks from which a rubber pipe came out, flexible metal pipes also, and the whole thing could be wheeled up to Bubsy’s pillows.
    “. . . friend . . . vacation . . .” Marion was saying. She was pleading with Bubsy. The Baron heard his name two or three times, Eddie’s name once, and Bubsy looked at the Baron with the angry, stubborn expression that the Baron knew well, knew since years, even when Eddie had been alive.
    “Well, no . . .” Bubsy went on, making quite an elaborate speech.
    Marion began again, not in the least discouraged.
    Bubsy coughed, and his face darkened a little. He repeated his “No . . . no . . .”
    Marion dropped on her knees and looked into the Baron’s eyes and talked to him. The Baron wagged his cropped tail. He trembled with joy, and could have flung his paws up on Marion’s shoulders, but he didn’t, because it was not the right thing to do. But his front paws kept dancing off the floor. He felt years younger.
    Then Marion began talking about Eddie, and she grew angrier. She drew herself up a little when she talked about Eddie, as if he were something to be proud of, and it was evident to the Baron that she thought, she might even be saying, that Bubsy wasn’t worth as much. The Baron knew that his master had been someone of importance. Strangers, coming to the house now and then, had treated Eddie as if he were their master, in a way, in those days when they had lived in another apartment, and Bubsy had served the drinks and cooked the meals like one of the servants on the ships the Baron had traveled on, or in the hotels where the Baron had stayed. Now suddenly Bubsy was claiming the Baron as his own dog. That was what it amounted to.
    Bubsy kept saying “No” in an increasingly firm