“Bless me, Husband-Man!” she would cry out.  “The Dog is talking.  I know he is talking.  He is telling me all about himself.  The story of his life is mine, could I but understand.  It’s right here pouring into my miserable inadequate ears, only I can’t catch it.”

Harley was sceptical, but her woman’s intuition guessed aright.

“I know it!” she would assure her husband.  “I tell you he could tell the tale of all his adventures if only we had understanding.  No other dog has ever talked this way to me.  There’s a tale there.  I feel its touches.  Sometimes almost do I know he is telling of joy, of love, of high elation, and combat.  Again, it is indignation, hurt of outrage, despair and sadness.”

“Naturally,” Harley agreed quietly.  “A white man’s dog, adrift among the anthropophagi of Malaita, would experience all such sensations and, just as naturally, a white man’s woman, a Wife-Woman, a dear, delightful Villa Kennan woman, can of herself imagine such a dog’s experiences and deem his silly noises a recital of them, failing to recognize them as projections of her own delicious, sensitive, sympathetic self.  The song of the sea from the lips of the shell—­Pshaw!  The song oneself makes of the sea and puts into the shell.”

“Just the same—­”

“Always the same,” he gallantly cut her off.  “Always right, especially when most wrong.  Not in navigation, of course, nor in affairs such as the multiplication table, where the brass tacks of reality stud the way of one’s ship among the rocks and shoals of the sea; but right, truth beyond truth to truth higher than truth, namely, intuitional truth.”

“Now you are laughing at me with your superior man-wisdom,” she retorted.  “But I know—­” she paused for the strength of words she needed, and words forsook her, so that her quick sweeping gesture of hand-touch to heart named authority that overrode all speech.

“We agree—­I salute,” he laughed gaily.  “It was just precisely what I was saying.  Our hearts can talk our heads down almost any time, and, best all, our hearts are always right despite the statistic that they are mostly wrong.”

Harley Kennan did not believe, and never did believe, his wife’s report of the tales Jerry told.  And through all his days to the last one of them, he considered the whole matter a pleasant fancy, all poesy of sentiment, on Villa’s part.

But Jerry, four-legged, smooth-coated, Irish terrier that he was, had the gift of tongues.  If he could not teach languages, at least he could learn languages.  Without effort, and quickly, practically with no teaching, he began picking up the language of the Ariel.  Unfortunately, it was not a whiff-whuff, dog-possible language such as Nalasu had invented.  While Jerry came to understand much that was spoken on the Ariel, he could speak none of it.  Three names, at least, he had for the lady-god:  “Villa,” “Wife-Woman,” “Missis Kennan,” for so he heard her variously called.  But he could not so call her.  This was god-language entire, which only gods could talk.  It was unlike the language of Nalasu’s devising, which had been a compromise between god-talk and dog-talk, so that a god and a dog could talk in the common medium.