“Brutal riding to death of the casual analogy is another mark of provincialism!” The Grey Cat raised her tufted chin. “I am going to sleep. With my social obligations I must snatch rest when I can; but, as our old friend here says, _Noblesse oblige_…. Pity me! Three functions to-night in the village, and a barn dance across the valley!” “There’s no chance, I suppose, of your looking in on the loft about two. Some of our young people are going to amuse themselves with a new sacque-dance—best white flour only,” said the Black Rat. “I believe I am officially supposed not to countenance that sort of thing, but youth is youth.… By the way, the humans set my milk-bowl in the loft these days; I hope your youngsters respect it.” “My dear lady,” said the Black Rat, bowing, “you grieve me. You hurt me inexpressibly. After all these years, too!” “A general crush is so mixed—highways and hedges—all that sort of thing—and no one can answer for one’s best friends. _I_ never try. So long as mine are amusin’ and in full voice, and can hold their own at a tile-party, I’m as catholic as these mixed waters in the dam here!” “We aren’t mixed. We _have_ mixed. We are one now,” said the Waters sulkily. “Still uttering?” said the Cat. “Never mind, here’s the Miller coming to shut you off. Ye-es, I have known—_four_—or five is it?—and twenty leaders of revolt in Faenza…. A little more babble in the dam, a little more noise in the sluice, a little extra splashing on the wheel, and then——” “They will find that nothing has occurred,” said the Black Rat. “The old things persist and survive and are recognised—our old friend here first of all. By the way,” he turned toward the Wheel, “I believe we have to congratulate you on your latest honour.” “Profoundly well deserved—even if he had never—as he has—-laboured strenuously through a long life for the amelioration of millkind,” said the Cat, who belonged to many tile and outhouse committees. “Doubly deserved, I may say, for the silent and dignified rebuke his existence offers to the clattering, fidgety-footed demands of—er—some people. What form did the honour take?” “It was,” said the Wheel bashfully, “a machine-moulded pinion.” “Pinions! Oh, how heavenly!” the Black Rat sighed. “I never see a bat without wishing for wings.” “Not exactly that sort of pinion,” said the Wheel, “but a really ornate circle of toothed iron wheels. Absurd, of course, but gratifying. Mr. Mangles and an associate herald invested me with it personally—on my left rim—the side that you can’t see from the mill. I hadn’t meant to say anything about it—or the new steel straps round my axles—bright red, you know—to be worn on all occasions—but, without false modesty, I assure you that the recognition cheered me not a little.” “How intensely gratifying!” said the Black Rat. “I must really steal an hour between lights some day and see what they are doing on your left side.”