"Well, if you ask me," said Charles Bevan, as if he were giving his opinion on some object of _vértu_, "I'd say they were more like--the other things." "I know they are not _pretty_," said Fanny regretfully, "but they are faithful. They always come to tea just as if they were invited." "I wonder your poodle--I mean the dog, lets them in." "Boy-Boy?--Oh, he only barks at things at night when they can't see him; he would run from a mouse, he's such a dear old coward. Aren't they thirsty?" "Where did you get them? I should think they would be hard to match." "I didn't get them: they are not ours, they just come in." "Do you mean to say you let stray cats in like that?" "_I_ don't let them in, they come in through a hole in the scullery window." "Goodness gracious!" "Sometimes the kitchen is full of cats; they seem to know." "That fools live here," thought Charles. "And Susannah spends all her time turning them out--all, of course, except the black ones." "Why not the black ones?" "Because they are lucky; did you not know that? It's frightfully unlucky to turn a black cat out." "Why not fill up the hole and stop them from getting in?" "Susannah has stuffed it up with old stockings and things till she's weary; they butt it in with their heads." "Why not have a new pane put in?" "Father has talked of that, but I have always changed the conversation, and then he forgets." "You like cats?" "I love them." Charles looked gloomily at the grimalkins. "Seems to me you must have your food stolen." "We used to, but Susannah locks everything up now before she goes to bed." She inverted the milk jug to show the cats that there was no milk left, and the intelligent creatures comprehending left the room, the black leading the way. "Faithful creatures!" sneered Charles. "Aren't they! Oh, but, Cousin Charles--I mean Mr----" "No; call me Cousin Charles." "--I've given the cats all the milk!" "No matter," said Charles magnanimously. "The poor beggars wanted it more than I. I never drink more than one cup of tea; it makes me nervous." "How good you are!" she murmured. "You remind me of father." Charles moved uneasily in his chair. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of Susannah singing and cleaning a window, a song like a fetish song interrupted by the sound of the window being closed to see if it was clean enough, and flung up again with a jerk, that spoke of dissatisfaction. These sounds of a sudden ceased. They were succeeded by the murmur of voices, a footstep, then a tap at the door, followed by the voice of Susannah requesting her mistress to step outside for a moment. "I know what _that_ always means," murmured the girl in a resigned voice, as she rose from the table and left the room. Charles Bevan rose from his chair and went to the window.