“Oh, don’t go yet,” said she, half rising and putting out her mitted hand. “You have barely come. I want that you should see my cat. I am quite proud of my cat. She was given to me by a play actor who spent last summer here. I was brought up to consider play acting an abomination to the Lord but we live and learn and this gentleman was an honest, God-fearing man although he has been a play actor ever since his youth. I cannot recall his name. Names have a way of going from one. It is one of the defects of age with which we must be patient.
“Pussy, pussy,” said she, calling in falsetto.
Whether in answer to the call or merely because Her Independence decided that it was time for her to come out and stroll about I cannot say but at that minute a most magnificent Angora jumped heavily from a chair in the sitting room (as I saw from my seat under the arbour) and walked out to us. She walked over to Ethel and sniffed her dress and passed her by. Then she came to me and sniffed my trouser leg and arching her back she rubbed against me and began to purr in tremendous fashion, quite like a young lion.
The old lady laughed cheerily.
“She always shows a penchant for gentlemen,” said she. “You never will guess her name. The play actor named her.”
“Lady Macbeth?” said I, quite at a venture.
“Why, my sakes,” said Mrs. Hartlett. “You are right. You must be a Yankee. You know we are said to be able to guess almost anything.”
“Well, if I’m not a Yankee born I’m one in spirit. My ancestors came from Connecticut.”
“The ‘land of steady habits.’ Stop, Macbeth. Don’t let her sharpen her claws in that fashion. I call her Macbeth half the time although she has a much better character than Macbeth had.”
“So you read Shakespeare?” said I.