“Beanie,” I said, “she wasn’t a true friend to you; why are you so sorry?”
“She brought me up,” he said. “She owned me. I can’t help loving her better than any one in the world.”
“But she is a very poor sort of a tool—now you know she is.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” he said, shaking his head, “she was my mistress.”
“I believe you’re right,” I said, “but I’m not that kind of a dog. I can’t love persons unless I respect them.”
“Then you don’t know yet what true dog love is,” said Beanie. “I’d rather be unhappy with my dear Mrs. Granton than to be happy here with Ellen.”
“Is it because she is rich, and you like luxury?” I asked in a puzzled way.
“No, no. If Mrs. Granton were Ellen, and Ellen were Mrs. Granton, it would be all the same.”
“Well,” I said stoutly, “I’m glad you can’t live with her, for she would have killed you by this time with over-rich food.”