A sentimentalist with a sense of humour cut, as he could see, a very poor figure; it were better, so far as appearances went, to be a pompous fool. Self-esteem is so widespread a virtue that the world, whatever it may say, is always impressed even by ridiculous dignity, and its one universally unconvincing spectacle is the man laughing at himself. Besides, when a man finds himself absurd, what is he likely to think imposing? Yet, for all his humour, Caragh sighed. For the moment, as on many previous moments, he craved the solemn personal point of view to make life seem for once of some importance and give him a taste of undiluted tears. His reflections were interrupted by something rubbing against his leg. It proved to be a little white dog, and he addressed some whimsical advice to it about the time of night before looking out again upon the river. But as the animal made no sign of movement, but merely shivered against his ankle, he lifted it up and set it on the parapet before him. From an inspection there he found it to be all but starved, with just strength enough to stand. He was indifferent to dogs, and felt that the wisest course, as he explained to it, would be to drop the trembling creature into the water and out of a world that had used it so ill. But he was very far from indifferent to the waif-like loneliness that gazed at him from its eyes, and, tucking it resignedly under his wrap, he turned back to the hotel. He spent an hour there, feeding it with some biscuits that remained from his raft journey, soaked in whisky and water, and then, since the little thing refused to rest but on the bed, he made the best of its odorous presence beside him, and only cursed his own soft-heartedness when waked occasionally by its tongue. On the morrow he began to show Ethel Vernon the city, and for two days she was too interested and fatigued to find fault with him. She had discovered the terrier, and enthusiastically adopted it, to Caragh's relief, being as devoted to dogs as he was apathetic. But on the third evening, when they were sitting again together upon the balcony after a quiet afternoon, she spoke her disappointment. The night was as splendidly blue as it had been when they sat there before; and she, dressed in black, with blue-black sequins woven over her bodice and scattered upon her skirt, looked to be robed in some dark cluster of starlight in her corner of the balcony. They had been talking of matters in which neither took much interest; then after a long pause she said quietly, "Why are you so different?" "I?" he exclaimed. "Oh, please don't pretend," she sighed. "What is it?" "I told you," he said doggedly, "the other night." "The other night?" she repeated. "What, when we were here?" "Yes," he said. She reflected for a moment. "About that girl, the one in Ireland? Do you mean that?" "I do," he said. "Do you mean it was true?" she asked with increasing tenseness. "Quite true," he said.