THEY went in, and, uncovering the basket, allowed Weejums to stretch her cramped paws and tail on the most beautiful plush sofa that she had ever seen,—and gaze with interested green eyes on the pictures and statuary around her. There were several long mirrors in the room, and Weejums admired herself in each by turn, until she came to what seemed another, when, greatly to her astonishment, her own reflection slanted back its ears and spit at her.
“What cat is this?” asked a strange voice, and Weejums saw her reflection hastily picked up by a lady in a lace gown, while the reflection continued to spit and growl.
“We thought ’twas Octavia,” faltered Marian; “but that must be Octavia in your arms, and, oh, I’m afraid we’ve carried off somebody else’s cat!”
“She’s the living image of Octavia, if you have,” said Mrs. Slocum, kneeling down to examine Weejums. “Where did you find her, Marian?”
And the story of Weejums’ discovery was told, while Mrs. Slocum thanked and petted Marian for all the trouble that she had taken.
“It might be Octavia’s own kitten,” Mrs. Slocum said, “except that Octavia never had one so like herself.”
“Your house may be beautiful,” said Weejums to Octavia; “but your manners are certainly common,” and before any one could interfere, she had dabbed Octavia on the nose, with a most unlady-like spit.
“Fennels—Fennels!” called Mrs. Slocum. “Marian dear, would you mind putting the strange cat in her basket for a minute? That’s right, thank you, dear. Now, if you don’t know whose she is, why not take her back to Montrose and put an advertisement in the paper? Somebody must be feeling terribly at losing her, and I should really like to know where she came from.”
“Marian was going to spend the night with me, and go to the Cat Show to-morrow,” said Mrs. Armstrong. “I suppose there is no great hurry about returning the cat. It isn’t as if ’twas a baby.”