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.
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