“Eh?” said George.
“Certain signs,” Mr. Marrapit repeated, with the smoothness of flowing oil, “which I recollect in my Rose. The mark, for example, where her left ear was abrased by Mr. Wyvern's blood-thirsty bull-terrier.”
George stooped to the cats. Pointing, he cried triumphantly: “Yes, and there is the mark!”
“Yes,” Mr. Marrapit pronounced mildly. “Yes, but you are now looking at Mrs. Major's cat.”
“Hem!” said Mrs. Major. “Hem!”
Like one who has stepped upon hot iron George started back, stared aghast. A further “hem,” with which a chuckle was mixed, came from Mrs. Major; from my collapsed Mary upon the edge of the sofa a sniff that was mingled groan and sob.
George put a hand to his head. This young man's senses were ajostle and awhirl. Well he remembered that mark which by disastrous blunder he had indicated on Mrs. Major's cat; vainly he sought it on his own. Yet his was the Rose. Was this a nightmare, then, and no true thing? He put his hand to his head.
“Looking at Mrs. Major's cat,” repeated Mr. Marrapit, his tone smooth as the trickle of oil.
George fought on. “Quite so. Quite so. I know that. That is what makes it so extraordinary—that this cat which you call Mrs. Major's and think is the Rose should have the very mark that our Rose had.”
“But our Rose has not—if that is she.”