The old man stretched out a groping hand in the direction of the voice.
“Is it you, Nico? You are welcome. Yes, I will go indoors just now. But you? How come you here at this time? How is it you are not at the Bank?”
“I have no head for business this morning, Kyr Themistocli; I saw you sitting here as I passed by the end of the street and I came to wish you good morning.”
“Are you not well, Nico?”
“I am well; but from early morning I cannot rest. Perhaps it will seem a small thing to you—but to me it is a great one—I have lost my dog!”
“The little white one? The one you call ‘Solon’?”
“Yes. Twice this week he has been lost and found. Those who believe in such things are right it seems when they tell you to beware of the third time. I am a fool, Kyr Themistocli, about this dog. I … I love him as I would a man. Some tell me it is a sin to care so much for an animal. But when I think how she ….”
“It is no sin,” said the old schoolmaster, “there are dogs that understand one better than men, and when old memories are mixed up with the caring …” he broke off suddenly. “But do not vex your heart! You will find him.”
Nico Spinotti shook his head.
“The ‘boya’ took him. He was out with my cook, and while she was in a shop the dog was picked up. She ran after the cart in vain; and then she returned weeping to the house to tell me. It was well she had that much sense at least.”