There was, of course, a towny foreground to it; and this it was, rather than the distant blue ranges, that held the gaze of Rose Pennycuick when she looked forth—­the back-yard of the villa next to their own.  It was a well-washed-and-swept enclosure, spacious and well-appointed, and amongst its appointments displayed a semi-circular platform of brickwork, slightly raised above the asphalted ground, and supporting the biggest and best dog-kennel that she had ever seen.

“Those are nice people,” she remarked, “for they have given their dog as good a house as they have given themselves.  Isn’t it a beauty?  I wish to goodness everybody was as considerate for the poor things.  I wonder what sort of a dear beast it is?”

She watched so long for its appearance that she thought the kennel untenanted, but presently saw a maid come out from the kitchen with a tin dish.  This she dumped upon the brick platform, turning her back instantly; and a fine, ruffed, feather-tailed collie stepped over the kennel threshold to get his dinner.

“Chained!” cried Rose.  “And she never spoke to him!”

Deb looked over her shoulder, sympathetically concerned.  “Is he really?  What a shame!  I expect they are too awfully clean and tidy to stand a dog’s paws on anything; but no doubt they let him out for a run.”

Rose waited for days, and never saw this happen.  The master of the house and a dapper young man, his son, went to town every morning at a certain hour, evidently for the day’s business; a stout, smart lady, with smart daughters, was seen going forth in the afternoons; the maids took their little outings; but no one took the dog.  He lived alone on his patch of brick, either hidden in the kennel or lying in the sun with his nose between his paws.  He had his food regularly, for it was a regular household; but beyond that, no notice seemed taken of him.  Rose, worked up from day to day, declared at last that she could not stand it.  “Why, what can you do?” said Deb.  “He is their dog, not yours.”  “Oh, I don’t know; but I must do something.”

One moonlight night she heard him—­always silent and supine, except when suspicious persons came into the yard—­baying softly to himself, plainly (to her) voicing the weariness of his unhappy life.  She sat up in bed and listened to him, and to his master shouting to him at intervals to “be quiet”; and she wept with sympathetic grief.

It was a Saturday night.  On Sunday morning she excused herself from going to church.  She saw Deb and Francie go, and she saw the family of the next house go—­heard their front door bang, and caught gleams of smart dresses through the foliage of their front garden.  Then she put on her hat and stole forth to intercede for the collie with the cook of his establishment, a kindly-looking person, who had once been observed to pat his head.

The gleaming imitation-mahogany door at which she rang with a determined hand but a fluttering heart, was, to her dismay, opened to her by a young man—­the son of the house, whom she had seen going to business every week-day morning, tailored beautifully, and wearing a silk hat that dazzled one.  He was now in a very old suit, flannel-shirted and collarless, so that at first she did not recognise him.