"I 've been too busy. There's your dog."
Barstow hung down his hand, that the pup might lick the ends of his fingers.
"Peter," he burst out, "you ought to have been with me. If I 'd known about the trip I 'd have taken you. It was just what you needed—a week of lolling around a deck in the hot sun with the sea winds blowing over your face. That's what you want to do—get out under the blue sky and soak it in. If you don't believe it, look at me. Fit as a fiddle; strong as a moose. You said you wanted to sprawl in the sunshine,—why the devil don't you take a week off and do it?"
"Perhaps I will."
"That's the stuff. You must do it. You were in bad shape when I left, but, man dear, you 're on the verge of a serious breakdown now. Do you realize it?"
"Yes, I realize it. That 's a good dog of yours, Barstow."
"What's the matter with the pup? Seems to me you 're taking a deuce of a lot of interest in him," he returned suspiciously.
"Dogs seem sort of human when you 're alone with them."
"This one looks more human than you do. See here, Don, Lindsey said that he might start off again to-morrow on a short cruise to Newport. I think I can get you a berth with him. Will you go?"
"It's good of you, Barstow," answered Donaldson uneasily, "but I don't like to promise."