"The cheap satirist," he said, "is forever comparing the fickleness of men with the faithfulness of animals, but I don't mean to do that. I have a great belief in some human natures, and there are many men whom I could, and would, implicitly trust."
"There is one, doctor, whom we both know."
"Cresswell. Yes. I could trust him through thick and thin. And yet his own dog flies at him."
Doctor Levillier returned to that fact, as if it puzzled him so utterly that he could not dismiss it from his mind.
"There must be some curious, subtle reason for that," he said; "yet with
all my intimate and affectionate knowledge of dogs I cannot divine it.
Watch Rip carefully when he is not with Cresswell. Look after his health.
Notice if he seems natural and happy. Does he eat as usual?"
"Rather. He did to-day."
"And he seems contented with you?"
"Quite."
"Well, all I can say is, that Rip doesn't seem to possess a dog nature.
He is uncanny."
"Uncanny," Julian said, seizing on the word. "But everything has become uncanny within the last few days. Upon my word, when I look back into the past of, say, a fortnight ago, I ask myself whether I am a fool, or dreaming, or whether my health is going to the deuce. London seems different. I look on things strangely. I fancy, I imagine—"