“It was all you saw that night, in the little boat,” she said after a time. “Yet you went?”
“Oh, yes, but that was different.”
“Is this all, Harry?” she said, and moved toward the door.
“Yes, my dear; it is all—but all the rest.”
Her color must have risen, for I saw dimly that she raised both her hands to her bosom, her throat. Thus the heartless jade stood, her head drooped, unable to meet the piercing gaze of my eagle eye.
There came a faint scratching at the door, a little whimpering whine.
“It is Partial, my dog, come after you,” said I bitterly. “He knows you are here. He never has done that way for me. He loves you.”
“He knows you are here, and he loves you,” said she. “That is why things come and scratch at doors where ruffians live.”
I flung open the door. “Partial,” said I, “come in; and choose between us.”
As to the first part of my speech, the invitation to enter, Partial obeyed with a rush; as to the second, the admonition, he apparently could not obey at all. In his poor dumb brute affliction, lack of human speech, he stood, after saluting us both, alternately and equally, hesitant between us, wagging, whining and gazing, knowing full well somewhat was wrong between us, grieving over us, beseeching us—but certainly not choosing between us.