Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

George’s attention was directed to the animal, and, as he looked at it, he started. Bob’s change of posture had revealed a serious deficiency: he had no tail, or the merest apology for a tail.

It was certainly an odd coincidence, perhaps nothing more, but a very odd coincidence, that George should have seen in the courtyard at Peckton Gaol no less than three tailless cats! Of course there are a good many in the world; but still most cats have tails.

“I like a black cat, don’t you?” said Neaera. “He’s nice and Satanic.”

The Peckton cats were black, too, – black as ink or the heart of a money-lender.

“An old favourite?” asked George, insidiously.

“I’ve had him a good many years. Oh!”

The last word slipped from Neaera involuntarily.

“Why ‘oh!’?”

“I’d forgotten his milk,” answered Neaera, with extraordinary promptitude.

“Where did you get him?”

Neaera was quite calm again. “Some friends gave him me. Please don’t say I stole my cat, too, Mr. Neston.”

George smiled; indeed, he almost laughed. “Well, it is peace, Mrs. Witt,” he said, taking his hat. “But remember!”

“What?” said Neaera, who was still smiling and cordial, but rather less at her ease than before.

“A cat may tell a tale, though he bear none.”

“What do you mean?”

“If it is ever war again, I will tell you. Good-bye, Mrs. Witt.”

“Good-bye. Please don’t have poor Bob arrested. He didn’t steal the boots – oh, the shoes, at any rate.”

“I expect he was in prison already.”

Neaera shook her head with an air of bewilderment. “I really don’t understand you. But I’m glad we’re not enemies any longer.”

George departed, but Neaera sat down on the rug and gazed into the fire. Presently Bob came to look after the forgotten milk. He rubbed himself right along Neaera’s elbow, beginning from his nose, down to the end of what he called his tail.

“Ah, Bob,” said Neaera, “what do you want? Milk, dear? ‘Good for evil, milk for – ’”

Bob purred and capered. Neaera gave him his milk, and stood looking at him.

“How would you like to be drowned, dear?” she asked.

The unconscious Bob lapped on.

Neaera stamped her foot. “He shan’t! He shan’t! He shan’t!” she exclaimed. “Not an inch! Not an inch!”

Bob finished his milk and looked up.

“No, dear, you shan’t be drowned. Don’t be afraid.”

As Bob knew nothing about drowning, and only meant that he wanted more milk, he showed no gratitude for his reprieve. Indeed, seeing there was to be no more milk, he pointedly turned his back, and began to wash his face.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE FRACAS AT MRS. POCKLINGTON’S

“I never heard anything so absurd in all my life,” said Mr. Blodwell, with emphasis.

George had just informed him of the treaty between himself and Neaera. He had told his tale with some embarrassment. It is so difficult to make people who were not present understand how an interview came to take the course it did.

“She seemed to think it all right,” George said weakly.

“Do you suppose you can shut people’s mouths in that way?”

“There are other ways,” remarked George, grimly, for his temper began to go.

“There are,” assented Mr. Blodwell; “and in these days, if you use them, it’s five pounds or a month, and a vast increase of gossip into the bargain. What does Gerald say?”

“Gerald? Oh, I don’t know. I suppose Mrs. Witt can manage him.”

“Do you? I doubt it. Gerald isn’t over easy to manage. Think of the position you leave him in!”

“He believes in her.”

“Yes, but he won’t be content unless other people do. Of course they’ll say she squared you.”

“Squared me!” exclaimed George, indignantly.

“Upon my soul, I’m not sure she hasn’t.”

“Of course you can say what you please, sir. From you I can’t resent it.”

“Come, don’t be huffy. Bright eyes have their effect on everybody. By the way, have you seen Isabel Bourne lately?”

“No.”

“Heard from her?”

“She sent me a message through Tommy Myles.”

“Is he in her confidence?”

“Apparently. The effect of it was, that she didn’t want to see me till I had come to my senses.”

“In those words?”