"Fond of dogs," mumbled George.
"You must be fond of dogs."
"Are you fond of dogs?"
"Yes, I'm very fond of dogs."
"So am I. Very fond of dogs."
"Yes?"
"Yes. Very fond of dogs. Some people are not fond of dogs, but I am."
And suddenly eloquence descended upon George Finch. With gleaming eyes he broke out into a sort of Litany. He began to talk easily and fluently.
"I am fond of Airedales and wire-haired terriers and bull-dogs and Pekingese and Sealyhams and Alsations and fox-terriers and greyhounds and Aberdeens and West Highlands and Cairns and Pomeranians and spaniels and schipperkes and pugs and Maltese and Yorkshires and borzois and bloodhounds and Bedlingtons and pointers and setters and mastiffs and Newfoundlands and St. Bernards and Great Danes and dachshunds and collies and chows and poodles and...."
"I see," said Molly. "You're fond of dogs."