The gentleman's thoughts were preoccupied, as his face showed, and he took no notice of a fine Newfoundland dog, who watched him attentively, and watched every stone too, in its turn, eager to spring into the river on receiving his master's sign. The ferry-boat came over, however, without his receiving any sign, and when it grounded his master took him by the collar and walked him into it.
"Not this morning," he said to the dog. "You won't do for ladies' company, dripping wet. Lie down."
Clennam followed the man and the dog into the boat, and took his seat. The dog did as he was ordered. The man remained standing, with his hands in his pockets, and towered between Clennam and the prospect. Man and dog both jumped lightly out as soon as they touched the other side, and went away. Clennam was glad to be rid of them.
The church clock struck the breakfast hour as he walked up the little lane by which the garden-gate was approached. The moment he pulled the bell a deep loud barking assailed him from within the wall.
"I heard no dog last night," thought Clennam. The gate was opened by one of the rosy maids, and on the lawn were the Newfoundland dog and the man.
"Miss Minnie is not down yet, gentlemen," said the blushing portress, as they all came together in the garden. Then she said to the master of the dog, "Mr Clennam, sir," and tripped away.
"Odd enough, Mr Clennam, that we should have met just now," said the man. Upon which the dog became mute.

. . . .

And ah! how beaming she looked, and how glad! How she caressed the dog, and how the dog knew her! . . . . The dog had put his great paws on her arm and laid his head against her dear bosom. She had laughed and welcomed them, and made far too much of the dog, far, far, too much -- that is to say, supposing there had been any third person looking on who loved her.