“A friend,” proceeded the tragedian, in a very audible whisper for all that he spoke behind his hand, “of the Queen’s most gracious majesty. This is no reflection upon the Queen, still it must have been a sore trial to her friendship when such a burden was laid upon it.”
“Yes, it is a dog,” said the dramatist, very gravely. “One of those brindled, flop-eared, yellow-coated, squab-bellied mongrels by the sound of it. It is the kind of dog that is only fit for a blind pedlar to trundle at the end of a string. Hi, Thomas!”—addressing a servant who had entered with a dish—“there is a dog in the room.”
“I don’t see it, sir,” said the servant, looking round.
“Oh, but there is, I tell you. One of those squat brutes all body and no legs. One of those half-begotten starvelings that lies all day by the hob and whines all night to the moon.”
“I see no dog, sir.”
“Have you looked under the table, Thomas?”
Thomas looked under the table, but still could see no dog.
“But I heard it, man, I tell you. There is no mistaking such a voice as that.”
“There is no dog here, sir,” the servant assured him, solemnly.
“Upon your oath, there is no dog?”