The emotion of Quilp’s tail kept pace with the fervour of my remarks.  He knew that he was the subject of the conversation, and his large brown eyes gleamed with intelligence, and his expressive eyebrows were eloquent of self-pity and appeal.  He was satisfied that whatever the issue I was on his side, and at half a hint he would have given my friend a taste of the rough side of his tongue.  But he is a well-mannered brute, and knows how to restrain his feelings in company.

What would be the result of your high tax?  I continued with passion.  It would be a blow at the democracy of dogs.  It would reduce the whole of dogdom to a pampered class of degenerates.  Is there anything more odious than the spectacle of a fat woman in furs nursing a lap dog in furs, too?  It is as degrading to the noble family of dogs as a footman in gold buttons and gold braid is to the human family.  But it is just these degenerates whom a high tax would protect.  Honest fellows like Quilp here (more triumphant tail flourishes), dogs that love you like a brother, that will run for you, carry for you, bark for you, whose candour is so transparent and whose faithfulness has been the theme of countless poets—­dogs like these would be taxed out of existence.

Now cats, I continued—­(at the thrilling word Quilp became tense with excitement), cats are another affair.  Personally I don’t care two pence if Mr. McKenna taxes them a guinea a whisker.  There is only one moment in the life of a cat that is tolerable, and that is when it is not a cat but a kitten.  Who was the Frenchman who said that women ought to be born at seventeen and die at thirty?  Cats ought to die when they cease to be kittens and become cats.

Cats, said my friend coldly, are the spiritual superiors of dogs.  The dog is a flunkey, a serf, an underling, a creature that is eternally watching its master.  Look at Quilp at this moment.  What a spectacle of servility.  You don’t see cats making themselves the slaves of men.  They like to be stroked, but they have no affection for the hand that strokes them.  They are not parasites, but independent souls, going their own way, living their own lives, indifferent to applause, calling no man master.  That is why the French consider them so superior to dogs.

I do not care what the French think, I said with warmth.

But they are our Allies, said my friend severely.  The Germans, on the other hand, prefer dogs.  I hope you are not a pro-German.

On the cat-and-dog issue I am, and I don’t care who knows it, I said recklessly.  And I hate these attempts to drag in prejudice.  Moreover, I would beg you to observe that it was a great Frenchman, none other than Pascal, who paid the highest of all tributes to the dog.  “The more I see of men,” he said, “the better I like dogs.”  I challenge you to produce from any French source such an encomium on the cat.