"Oh, I beg, sir, that you won't do that," broke in Smithfield. "The cat belongs to the cook, and I really could not say, sir, what she might do, if the cat were put out of the house."
"We seem to hear a vast amount about what this cook likes and doesn't like," said Tucker, dribbling a little more hot milk into his half cup of coffee. "The house, I believe, is not run entirely for her convenience."
It is possible that Crane had already been rendered slightly inimical to his friend's point of view, but he was saved the trouble of answering him, for at this moment the cook herself entered the room, in what no one present doubted for an instant was a towering rage. She was wearing a sky blue gingham dress, her eyes were shining frightfully, and her cheeks were very pink.
At the sight of her, all conversation died away.
The butler approaching her, attempted to draw her aside, murmuring something to which she paid no attention.
"No," she said aloud, pulling her arm away from his restraining hand, "I will not go away and leave it to you. I will not stay in any house where dumb animals are ill-treated, least of all, my own dear cat."
It is, as most of us know to our cost, easier to be pompous than dignified when one feels oneself in the wrong.
"Pooh," said Tucker, "your cat was not ill-treated. She had no business in the dining-room."
"He was kicked," said the cook.
"Come, my girl," returned Tucker, "this is not the way to speak to your employer."