All this time May and her father were licking each other. He was pleased to see _her_ back. _My_ mother seemed to have forgotten _me_! She met me merely with politeness, as she might a stranger. It had all fallen out exactly as she had predicted. I was nothing to her now--nothing special, I mean. Later on in the day she gave me a bat with her paw, the first of many. I soon got used to it, and hit back. Mr. Graham told Auntie May that Mr. Fox had been three times to ask after her. I don't think from the way he spoke that Mr. Fox had told him about his visit to Paris, for he seemed to be under the impression that I had been sent on to her from the cattery at Kew by parcels delivery, and, as far as I know, May did not undeceive him. Mr. Fox had gone up to Shortleas, his shooting near Beatrice's house, and Mr. Graham said he was quite rich. Auntie May said, 'How do you know that, Daddy?' 'Because he told me so, my dear.' All Auntie May said was, 'Oh!' but as she went out of the room she added, 'It is a pity he hates cats so, isn't it?' The black cat's name was Charlie, but Auntie May never knew that, and she christened him Blackavice, because he had a black face. He was a really comfortable old thing, and the night after I came back we all listened to him, sitting on different high things in the room. We cats never like to be crowded up together unless we are sleeping, and then we prefer it because of the warmth. He was only nine, and he had had a strange and varied life. He told us all in snippets, some things one evening and some another, and some things twice over. We never minded that, but listened to his yarns with the greatest attention. We liked him fairly well, but not well enough to lick him. One never knew where he had been, and there is a dustbin full of potato peelings and other things to every house in the square.