“There was something in the style of the narrative, a certain quite appreciable literary flavour which suggested the _Anti-Cat_; but please go on and keep to the words of the article as far as possible. You had just got to where you spoke to no one in particular.” “Laying down my fork, I said to no one in particular: ‘Of course I get a holiday for my birthday.’ ‘I think a half----’ began she. ‘Of course,’ said father loudly, ‘a holiday on such a great occasion.’ Her face fell. Her scowl deepened. To hide her rage she blew her nose. There was a revengeful glitter in her eye.” Lalage paused. “I need scarcely tell you,” said the Canon, “that I had no idea when I spoke that there had been any previous discussion of the subject.” “The article ends there, I suppose,” I said. “Yes,” said Lalage. “She had it in for me after that worse than ever, knowing that I had jolly well scored off her.” “And in the end she broke out over your effort to improve Tom Kitterick’s complexion?” “She sneaked,” said Lalage; “sneaked to father. I wrote an article about that. It’s in my box if you’d like to see it.” The Canon’s eyes met mine. Then we both looked at our watches. We had still ten minutes before the train started. “It’s about halfway down,” said Lalage, “on the left-hand side.” “I think we might----” I said. “Yes,” said the Canon. “In fact we must.” We moved together across the platform toward the porter’s barrow, on which Lalage’s trunk lay. “I should like to see the article,” I said, fumbling with the strap. “It isn’t so much that,” said the Canon. “Somebody is sure to unpack her box for her to-night, and if Miss Pettigrew came on the thing and read it----” “She would be prejudiced against Lalage.” “I’d like the poor child to start fair, anyhow,” said the Canon, “whatever happens later on.” We unpacked a good many of Lalage’s clothes and came on the second number of the _Anti-Cat_. Lalage took possession of it and turned over the pages, while the Canon and I refolded a blue serge dress and wedged it into its place with boots. “Here you are,” said Lalage, when I had finished tugging at the straps. “‘Sneaking, Second Example. The Latest Move of Cattersby. Such a move! A disgrace to any properly run society, a further disgrace to the already disgraceful tactics of the Cat! How even that base enemy could do such a thing is more than we honourable citizens can understand.’” “The other honourable citizen,” I said, “is Tom Kitterick, I suppose.” “No,” said Lalage. “There was only me, but that’s the way editors always talk. Father told me so once.--‘Yet she did it. She sneaked. Yes, sneaked to the grown-up society, complained, as the now extinct Tommy used to do.” “The allusion,” I said, “escapes me. Who was the now extinct Tommy?” “The one before the Cat,” said Lalage. “Her name,” said the Canon feebly, “was Miss Thomas. She did complain a good deal about Lalage during the six weeks she was with us.”