"To be sure," rejoined the doctor, who had, in truth, for the moment forgotten the fact, so long a time had elapsed since the little dog took up his residence with Julian. "You think he's howling for me?" Valentine said. "I was thinking of Julian at the moment." "And what do you say now? Still that he is howling for his master?" The dog's voice was heard again. It sounded almost like a shriek of fear. "No," the doctor replied, wondering what intention was growing in Valentine's face. "Oh!" Valentine said curtly. He turned to the man. "Bateman, bring Rip in here to us." The man hesitated. "I don't think he'll come, sir." "I said, bring him to us." The man went out, as if with reluctance. Valentine turned to the doctor. "We spoke about soul--that is, will--just now," he said. "To deny the will is death, despite Schopenhauer. Death? Worse than death--cowardice. To assert the will is life and victory. With each assertion a man steps nearer to a god. With each conquest of another will a man mounts, and if any man wants to enjoy an eternity he must create it for himself by feeding his will or soul with conquest till it is so strong that it cannot die." His eyes shone with excitement. It seemed to the doctor that he was caught in the whirlpool of a violent reaction. He had shown fear, weakness; he was aware of it, and determined to reassert himself. The doctor answered nothing, neither agreeing with his fantastic philosophy nor striving to controvert it. And at this moment there was the sound of a struggle and of whining outside. The door was pushed open, and Julian's man appeared, hauling Rip along by the collar. The little dog was hanging back, with all its force, and striving to get away. Having succeeded in getting it into the room, the man quickly retreated, shutting the door hastily behind him. The little dog was left with Valentine and the doctor. It remained shrinking up against the door in a posture that denoted abject fear, its pretty head turned in the direction of Valentine, its eyes glaring, its teeth snapping at the air. The doctor looked at it and at Valentine. His pity for the dog's condition was held in check by a strange fascination of curiosity. He leaned his arms on the table and his eyes were fixed on Valentine, who got up slowly from his chair. "I have let Rip be the prey of his absurd fancies long enough, doctor," he said. "To-night I will make him like me as he used to, or at least come to me." And he whistled to the dog and called Rip, standing by the table. Rip howled and trembled in reply, and snapped more fiercely in the direction of Valentine. "Do you see that, doctor? But he shall come. I will make him."