ontrol. 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 couldn't think of it! I might indeed have saved my
breath, I knew it was one of the Fynes' rules of life, part of their
solemnity and responsibility, one of those things that were part of their
unassertive but ever present superiority, that their dog must not be
allowed in. It was most improper to intrude the dog into the houses of
the people they were calling on--if it were only a careless bachelor in
farmhouse lodgings and a personal friend of the dog. It was out of the
question. But they would let him bark one's sanity away outside one's
window. They were strangely consistent in their lack of imaginative
sympathy. I didn't insist but simply led the way back to the parlour,
hoping that no wayfarer would happen along the lane for the next hour or
so to disturb the dog's composure.

Mrs. Fyne seated immovable before the table charged wi