“I know,” she exclaimed at last; “I’ve got a beautiful name that just suits it. I shall call it ‘Blanche.’ That’s French for white, you know,” she added for Maisie’s instruction. Maisie did not know, for she had not begun to learn French, but she quite agreed that Blanche was a lovely name, and seemed made for the white kitten.
After much patient effort she succeeded in untwisting Miss Mervyn’s wool from most of the knots and tangles, and putting the contents of the basket into something like order.
“There!” she said; “that’s as straight as I can make it.”
“I don’t see why you took so much trouble over it,” said Philippa; “it wasn’t your fault—it was the kitten’s.”
“Well, the kitten couldn’t put it straight,” replied Maisie. “It wasn’t half so mischievous as Darkie at home, but I expect it feels strange here just at first. When it gets to know you, it won’t be so naughty.”
She looked a little anxiously at the kitten, who was purring contentedly in Philippa’s arms.
“I hope,” she added, “it will be a nice, well-behaved cat when it grows up.”
“It ought to be the nicest of the three,” said Philippa; “that’s very certain.”
“Why?” asked Maisie.
“Well, you see,” said Philippa, with her chin in the air, “it will have such advantages here. It will sleep on my bed, and have cream for its tea, and it will always wear a lovely ribbon on its neck, or perhaps a collar with a bell. And it will have nothing to do but play, and never be with common, low people.”