A pencil dislodged by the paper fell to the ground; rolled beneath the table.
Bill stooped after it. The cat that lay there, disturbed, walked forth—arching its proud orange back.
II.
With eyes that goggled tremendously Bill stared at it; with a finger that shook he pointed at it; turned his head to George. “George,” he asked, “whose cat is that?”
George looked at Mary; gave a bitter little laugh. “I suppose it's ours,” he replied. “Eh, Mary?”
A sad little smile his Mary gave, “I suppose it is,” she agreed.
From one to the other Bill looked, suspicion in those goggling eyes.
“You suppose it is?” he emphasised. Again he swiftly looked from George to Mary; again stared at the splendid orange form. “George,” he said sharply—“George, what is that cat's name?”
George regarded him with a whimsical smile. “Bill, you old duffer, you don't think it's the Rose, do you?”
Yet more sharply than before Bill spoke. “George, is that cat's name Abishag?”