“Well,” he said at last, “I would substitute a child in place of the dog, and... But you don’t need to inquire what form the addition would take. We’ve discussed all that before. I’m not sure I wouldn’t make them both additions,” he added, “and let the dog remain.”
Mr Musgrave reddened.
“Don’t you think,” he suggested, with a diffidence altogether at variance with his usual manner of receiving this advice, “that I am rather old for such changes?”
“You are just over forty,” the other answered, “and forty is the prime of life... Any age is the prime of life when a man is disposed to regard it so. You grow younger every day, John.”
When the vicar left him John Musgrave returned to the fire and stood beside Diogenes on the rug, staring thoughtfully down into the flames. In the heart of the flames he saw a picture of an upturned face, of a pair of darkly grey eyes gazing earnestly into his.
“You are so kind, so very kind.” The words repeated themselves in his memory. “I wish there was something I could do for you...”
John Musgrave stirred restlessly. Were the words sincere, he wondered? They had been sincere at the time, he knew; but possibly they had been prompted by the gratitude of the moment; and gratitude is no more enduring than any other quality. He glanced at Diogenes, who, with a much-wrinkled brow, was also contemplating the flames.
“I think it would be extortionate to demand payment for the service, Diogenes,” he said.
Diogenes looked up and snorted approval.
“It is, after all, a privilege to feel that one has rendered some service and has received her thanks. I don’t think it would be fair—to her—to expect more.”