“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!”