the world won't make him the dog's master without the dog's
own consent. Ever stop to think of that, Bobby?"

As he talked, half incoherently, to the delighted collie,
Gavin was retracing his way over the mile or so he had just
traversed. He grudged the extra steps. For the day had been
long and full of exercise. And he was more than comfortably
tired. But he kept on, wondering vexedly at the little throb
of eagerness in his heart as Claire Standish's home at last
bulked dimly into view around the last curve of the byroad.

Bobby Burns trotted happily beside him, reveling in the man's
occasional rambling words, as is the flattering way collies
have when they are talked to, familiarly, by the human they
love. And so the two neared the house, their padding
footsteps noiseless in the soft white dust of the road.

There were lights in several windows. One strong ray was cast
full across the side lawn, penetrating almost as far as the
beginning of the forest at the rear. Toward this vivid beam,
Gavin bent his steps, fumbling in his pocket as he went, for
something with which to tie Bobby to the nearest tree.

As he moved forward and left the road for the closecropped
grass of the lawn, he saw a dim white shadow advancing
obliquely in his direction. And, for an instant, his
heartbeats quickened, ever so slightly. Then, he was
disgusted with his own fatuousness. For the white form was
double the size of Claire Standish. And he knew this was her
brother, crossing from the garage to a door of the house.