She did not realize that she had put her warm, sympathetic hand on Standing's arm before her other hand found the old dog's head.
"Thor!... Thor!"
Thor looked up at her; at Standing. The dog tried to stir; the faithful tongue strove to overmaster the terrible inertia laid upon it; to grant in last adulation the last farewell. For a stricken dog, like a stricken man, knows after the way of all creatures which have the spark of eternity within them, when the day's end is in doubt....
Standing tried to speak ... and grew silent. How she hated herself then for that other time when he had slipped, through sorrowing rage, into his one unmanly failing ... and she had laughed! Her tears began running down. He saw; he jerked his head about, focussing his eyes upon the eyes of a dog that he loved; a dog that had been faithful to him.
"Where is he hurt? He can't be shot," cried Lynette. "We would have heard a shot! If he is poisoned...."
Standing had mastered himself. He said coldly.
"Look!"
"Who did ... that?"
"If I only knew! My God, if I only knew!"