“No, a shadow; a cloud’s, no doubt—though that I cannot see. How did you know it? Your eyes are on your work.”
“It dusked my work. There, now the cloud is gone, Tray comes back.”
“How?”
“The dog, the shaggy dog. At noon, he steals off, of himself, to change his shape—returns, and lies down awhile, nigh the door. Don’t you see him? His head is turned round at you; though, when you came, he looked before him.”
“Your eyes rest but on your work; what do you speak of?”
“By the window, crossing.”
“You mean this shaggy shadow—the nigh one? And, yes, now that I mark it, it is not unlike a large, black Newfoundland dog. The invading shadow gone, the invaded one returns. But I do not see what casts it.”
“For that, you must go without.”
“One of those grassy rocks, no doubt.”
“You see his head, his face?”