“We got home last night. Motored from town; a good run, but tiring.”
“I trust,” Mr Musgrave said, “that the ladies are well?”
“First rate, thanks.” Will Chadwick watched Mr Musgrave as, having succeeded in grasping Diogenes’ collar, he promptly fixed the chain. “New dog, eh?” he said.
“I have had him some months,” Mr Musgrave replied. “But I prefer to keep him on the chain when we get outside the gate. He is a bit wild.”
“Seems to be—yes.”
Mr Chadwick continued to regard the dog reflectively. He had heard of people turning suddenly white through shock; he was wondering whether change of residence could have the effect of changing a white bull-dog into a brindle.
“You call him Diogenes?” he observed. “It’s odd, but he is so like the dog we had I could almost swear it is the same. Same stock, perhaps. What’s his pedigree?”
“I really haven’t an idea,” Mr Musgrave replied, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. “The resemblance you speak of to your dog is very marked. I have observed it myself. I call him Diogenes on that account.”
“Oh!” said Mr Chadwick.
The talk hung for a time. Mr Chadwick was debating whether a strong family likeness between two animals might extend to the affections in so far as to incline them towards the same persons. Mr Musgrave’s brindle betrayed the fawning devotion towards himself that he had been accustomed to from his own dog.