“What?” said Neaera, who was still smiling and cordial, but rather less at her ease than before.
“A cat may tell a tale, though he bear none.”
“What do you mean?”
“If it is ever war again, I will tell you. Good-bye, Mrs. Witt.”
“Good-bye. Please don’t have poor Bob arrested. He didn’t steal the boots—oh, the shoes, at any rate.”
“I expect he was in prison already.”
Neaera shook her head with an air of bewilderment. “I really don’t understand you. But I’m glad we’re not enemies any longer.”
George departed, but Neaera sat down on the rug and gazed into the fire. Presently Bob came to look after the forgotten milk. He rubbed himself right along Neaera’s elbow, beginning from his nose, down to the end of what he called his tail.
“Ah, Bob,” said Neaera, “what do you want? Milk, dear? ‘Good for evil, milk for——’”