He hesitated.
"It—it was chilly, certainly," he said. "I fancy I must have dosed a little, for I did feel pretty cold once or twice."
"Ah, indeed!" thought I to myself. "And how about Tim?"
Phil smiled, but not very successfully.
"Well," he said, "I must confess Tim did not altogether like it. He started snarling, then he growled, and finished up with whining in a decidedly unhappy way. He's rather upset—poor old chap!"
And then I saw that the dog was beside him—rubbing up close to Philip's legs—a very dejected, reproachful Tim—all the starch taken out of him.
"Good-night, Phil," I said, turning round on my pillow. "I'm glad you are satisfied. To-morrow morning you must tell me which of your theories holds most water. Good-night, and many thanks."
He was going to say more, but my manner for the moment stopped him, and he went off.
Poor old Phil!
We had it out the next morning. He and I alone. He was not satisfied. Far from it. In the bottom of his heart I believe it was a strange yearning for a breath of human companionship, for the sound of a human voice, that had made him look in on me the night before.