"'Tartar is your dear companion. In summer, when you rise early, and run out into the fields to wet your feet with the dew, and freshen your cheek and uncurl your hair with the breeze, you always call him to follow you. You call him sometimes with a whistle that you learned from me. In the solitude of your wood, when you think nobody but Tartar is listening, you whistle the very tunes you imitated from my lips, or sing the very songs you have caught up by ear from my voice. I do not ask whence flows the feeling which you pour into these songs, for I know it flows out of your heart, Miss Keeldar. In the winter evenings Tartar lies at your feet. You suffer him to rest his head on your perfumed lap; you let him couch on the borders of your satin raiment. His rough hide is familiar with the contact of your hand. I once saw you kiss him on that snow-white beauty spot which stars his broad forehead. It is dangerous to say I am like Tartar; it suggests to me a claim to be treated like Tartar.'

"'Tartar is your dear companion. In summer, when you rise early, and run out into the fields, you always call him to follow you, sometimes with a whistle that you learned from me. In the solitude of your wood, when you think nobody but Tartar is listening, you whistle the very tunes you learnt from my lips, or sing the very songs you have caught up from my voice. In the winter evenings Tartar lies at your feet. You allow him to rest his head on your lap; you let him lie on the edge of your gown. His rough hide is familiar with the feel of your hand. I once saw you kiss him on his forehead. It is dangerous to say I am like Tartar; I may claim to be treated like Tartar.'
