And Mike, who is grizzled and grown somewhat
dour, shows toward our Gissing much the attitude of Dr. Eliot toward
the younger litter of humans.
In public, and when any one is watching, Mike, who is the Dog
Emeritus of the Salamis Estates, pays no heed to Gissing at all:
ignores him, and prowls austerely about his elderly business. But
secretly spying from a window, we have seen him, unaware of notice,
stroll (a little heavily and stiffly, for an old dog's legs grow
gouty) over to Gissing's kennel. With his tail slightly vibrant, he
conducts a dignified causerie. Unhappily, these talks are always
concluded by some breach of manners on Gissing's part. At first he
is respectful; but presently his enthusiasm grows too much for him;
he begins to leap and frolic and utter uncouth praises of things in
general. Then Mike turns soberly and moves away.
On such an occasion, the chat went like this:
GISSING: Do you believe in God?
MIKE: I acknowledge Him. I don't believe in Him.
GISSING: Oh, I think He's splendid. Hurrah! Hullabaloo! When He puts
on those old khaki trousers and smokes that curve-stem pipe I always
know there's a good time coming.
MIKE: You have made a mistake. That is not God. God is a tall,
placid, slender man, who wears puttees when He works in the garden
and smokes only cigarettes.
GISSING: Not at all. God is quite stout, and of uncertain temper,
but I adore Him.
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