“My sympathies march with Madame Terrascalchi’s,” he answered, “though perhaps she expresses them with a feminine enthusiasm that may seem to some almost hysterical, and is carried away by her passion of pity into an excess of animosity against men and women, who often err against the animal world more from lack of imagination than from any definite bias towards cruelty.” “The question is, are we to be the servants of the animals or they to be our servants?” Deeming said rather drily. “I notice that Madame Terrascalchi is eating something that looks remarkably like a veal cutlet at this very moment.” “Oh,” said Vernon, with his pleasant smile. “I hold no brief for her. I believe her, in fact, to be very—shall I say human? But as to what you were saying. Is it wholly a matter of whether we are to be masters or slaves? Cannot we and the animals—we are not, of course, discussing dangerous wild beasts—be friends, or, let us say, could we not be friends, good and close friends, they serving us in their way, we serving them in ours?” “How are we to serve the animals?” asked Deeming, still drily. “By considering them far more than we generally do, by studying them, their natures, habits, desires, likes and dislikes far more closely, by encouraging their affection for us, and giving them more of ours.” “I think that would be a great waste of time.” “Deeming is a terribly busy man, Vernon,” I said. “I know my London well enough to know it,” Vernon remarked politely. “Still, I think we might find time for that; even that we ought to find time for it. I am rather what you might call a ‘crank’ on the subject of the animal world.” “I didn’t know it,” I said. “Oh, yes, I am.” The almost fierce light again shone in his eyes.