"That young ruffian has an influence over her," mourned the poet. "He is always with her. He is capable of saying I am a ’rotter’; yes, a rotter, a dozen times a day if I refuse, and to have him doing that would be more than I can endure. I want her to love me, and so I buy his dogs. I have a bulldog which hasn’t done me any good. All he has done is to tear my trousers and trample over my flower-beds. I have an Irish terrier who is now being cured of bulldog bites by a veterinary surgeon. I’ve a retriever who howls at night and makes the bulldog unhappy. I have a Borzois with bronchitis and no hair on his tail. Bob wrote to say the hair would grow if I put hair-wash on it myself. He said men couldn’t be trusted to do it. And then I’ve Goby on my hands. I speak in confidence, Lord Bradstock." "Of course," said Bradstock. "Then I own I loathe Goby," said De Vere, viciously. "He has less brains than my bulldog, and I think the bulldog has less brains than the retriever. He reads poetry because she said he was to, and he makes me explain mine to him. Explain it! And he makes me row every day he’s with me, and he says I’m not imitating Roosevelt if I don’t. She said I was to imitate Roosevelt. Why should I? I loathe Republicans. She also told me I was to imitate Sven Hedin. On inquiry I found Sven Hedin was an ass who explored deserts, and went without water for many days. Goby can do that, as my wine-cellar can testify. He says he only tastes water when he cleans his teeth, and then it makes him sick. And, though I keep wine for my friends, I am a water-drinker. How can I do without it? I am very unhappy." "I should chuck Goby and give it up," said Bradstock. "I wish I could," said the poet, "but my nature is an enduring one. We learn in suffering Gobies and bulldogs what we teach in song. A dog may be the friend of man, but a bulldog is a tailor’s enemy. And I believe they gave Goby the V.C. to get rid of him. Do they ever give decorations to get rid of people?" Bradstock said he thought so, and wondered what he could give De Vere. And then the poet sighed and rose. "I have to meet Goby and lunch with him. And afterward we read Shelley together, and then he will teach me billiards at his club. I loathe billiards. It is the most foolish game on earth except keeping bulldogs. And Goby’s friends are not sympathetic. They are sportsmen, and ought to be hunted with bulldogs." He went away sadly, and Bradstock lay on a sofa and laughed till he cried. "Pen will be my death and the death of a dozen," he said. "And as for Bob—" No sooner had De Vere departed than young Bramber was announced.