“‘You’ve let me make a fool of myself with you. That’s nothing. One
makes a fool of oneself most days one way or another.’ ‘What do you
mean?’ he asked. ‘That you’ve allowed me to think that you would never
keep a dog or animal of any kind in your house, that you’ve sat here
and listened to me trying to persuade you to keep one, while all the
time there is—or was—one perhaps within a few feet of me. You’ve let
me think what wasn’t true, you’ve made me think what wasn’t true. I
don’t know what your reason is, but I know that I hate your action, and
that I never thought you were capable of doing such a low thing to a
friend.’”
“Pretty strong,” I said. “How did he take it?”
“That’s the nastiest part of all. He took it lying down.”
“Lying down?”
“Yes. Merely said the matter of the dog was such a trifle he hadn’t
thought it would interest me to know of it, that he wasn’t sure of
keeping it for any time, that he’d been so busy with me that—etc.,
etc. The lamest excuses man ever offered to man. I was disgusted, and
showed it. It’s my way to show things—can’t help doing it. ‘Let’s get
to work,’ he said, trying to change the subject. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t
work with you to-day. That’s certain.’ And I took up my hat and went.”
“And you—you didn’t see the dog?”
“Oh, dear no. But it wasn’t that I cared about.”
“I wish you had seen it. I wish you would see it.”
I was speaking almost involuntarily, as if the words were forced from
me, words scarcely prompted by any thought in me, words that were
uttered for me.
“Why?” he asked. “Why? What do you mean?”
His face and manner were always alert, but now they had suddenly become
intense with a sort of quivering vivacity.
“What’s wrong about the dog?”
“I don’t know that anything is wrong.”
“Know! Do you suspect anything is wrong?”