Poor old things! Sombre
agitations were not theirs. They had nothing to aim at or to fight
against. No devils and angels played at football with their souls. Their
_liaisons_ were clear, uncomplicated by the violent mental drum-taps that
set the passions marching so often at a quickstep in the wrong direction.
And Julian knelt down on the hearth-rug and laid his strong young hands
on their broad heads. Slowly they opened their veiled eyes and blinked.
One, Rupert, struck a strict tail feebly upon the carpet in token of
acquiescence and gratified goodwill. Mab heaved herself over until she
rested more completely upon her side, and allowed an enormous sigh to
rumble through her monotonously. Julian enjoyed that sigh. It made him
for the moment an optimist, as a happy child makes a dreary old man
shivering on the edge of death an optimist. Dogs are blessed things.
That was his thought. And just then the door at the end of the room
opened quietly, and Doctor Levillier came in, with a cloak on and his
crush-hat in his hand.
"I am glad to see you, Addison," he said.
The dogs shook themselves up onto their legs and laid their heads against
his knees.
"Lawler, please bring my gruel."
"Yes, sir."
"Addison, will you have brandy or whisky?"
"Whisky, please, doctor.
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