The appreciation brought Doggie at once to his side. Oliver, the connoisseur, was showing himself in a new and agreeable light. Doggie took him delightedly round the pictures, expounding their merits and their little histories. He found that Oliver, although unlearned, had a true sense of light and colour and tone. He was just beginning to like him, when the tactless fellow, stopping before the collection of little dogs, spoiled everything. "My holy aunt!" he cried--an objurgation which Doggie had abhorred from boyhood--and he doubled with laughter in his horrid schoolboy fashion--"My dear Doggie--is that your family? How many litters?" "It's the finest collection of the kind in the world," replied Doggie stiffly, "and is worth several thousand pounds." Oliver heaved himself into a chair--that was Doggie's impression of his method of sitting down--a Sheraton chair with delicate arms and legs. "Forgive me," he said, "but you're such a funny devil."--Doggie gaped. The conception of himself as a funny devil was new.--"Pictures and music I can understand. But what the deuce is the point of these dam little dogs?" But Doggie was hurt. "It would be useless to try to explain," said he. Oliver took off his hat and sent it skimming on to the couch. "Look here, old chap," he said, "I seem to have put my foot into it again. I didn't mean to, really. Peggy gave me hell this morning for not treating you as a man and a brother, and I came round to try to put things right." "It's very considerate of Peggy, I'm sure," said Marmaduke. "Now look here, old Doggie----" "I told you when we first met yesterday that I vehemently object to being called Doggie." "But why?" asked Oliver. "I've made inquiries, and find that all your pals----" "I haven't any pals, as you call them." "Well, all our male contemporaries in the place who have the honour of your acquaintance--they all call you Doggie, and you don't seem to mind." "I do mind," replied Marmaduke angrily, "but as I avoid their company as much as possible, it doesn't very much matter." Oliver stretched out his legs and put his hands behind his back--then wriggled to his feet. "What a beast of a chair! Anyhow," he went on, puffing at his pipe, "don't let us quarrel. I'll call you Marmaduke, if you like, when I can remember--it's a beast of a name--like the chair. I'm a rough sort of chap. I've had ten years' pretty rough training. I've slept on boards. I've slept in the open without a cent to hire a board. I've gone cold and I've gone hungry, and men have knocked me about and I've knocked men about--and I've lost the Durdlebury sense of social values. In the wilds if a man once gets the name, say, of Duck-Eyed Joe, it sticks to him, and he accepts it and answers to it, and signs 'Duck-Eyed Joe' on an IOU and honours the signature."