n unfair. I don't think it would have been kind
either. I told her that she must be prepared for the world passing a
very severe judgment on her father..."

"Wasn't it admirable," cried Marlow interrupting his narrative.
"Admirable!" And as I looked dubiously at this unexpected enthusiasm he
started justifying it after his own manner.

"I say admirable because it was so characteristic. It was perfect.
Nothing short of genius could have found better. And this was nature!
As they say of an artist's work: this was a perfect Fyne. Compassion--
judiciousness--something correctly measured. None of your dishevelled
sentiment. And right! You must confess that nothing could have been
more right. I had a mind to shout `Brava! Brava!' but I did not do
that. I took a piece of cake and went out to bribe the Fyne dog into
some sort of self-control. His sharp comical yapping was unbearable,
like stabs through one's brain, and Fyne's deeply modulated
remonstrances abashed the vivacious animal no more than the deep,
patient murmur of the sea abashes a nigger minstrel on a popular beach.
Fyne was beginning to swear at him in low, sepulchral tones when I
appeared. The dog became at once wildly demonstrative, half strangling
himself in his collar, his eyes and tongue hanging out in the excess of
his incomprehensible affection for me. This was before he caught sight
of the cake in my hand. A series of vertical springs high up in the air
followed, and then, when he got the cake, he instantly lost his interest
in everything else."

Fyne was slightly vexed with me. As kind a master as any dog could wish
to have, he yet did not approve of cake being given to dogs. The Fyne
dog was supposed to lead a Spartan existence on a diet of repulsive
biscuits with an occasional dry, hygienic, bone thrown in. Fyne looked
down gloomily at the appeased animal, I too looked at that fool-dog; and
(you know how one's memory gets suddenly stimulated) I was reminded
visually, with an almost painful distinctness, of the ghostly white face
of the girl I saw last accompanied by that dog--deserted by that dog. I
almost heard her distressed voice as if on the verge of resentful tears
calling to the dog, the unsympathetic dog. Perhaps she had not the
power of evoking sympathy, that personal gift of direct appeal to the
feelings. I said to Fyne, mistrusting the supine attitude of the dog:

"Why don't you let him come inside?"

Oh dear no! He