“I will leave the room, if you will allow me, sir, for I know that there is a Cat in the room.”
“I am quite sure there is, sir; I feel it—I would rather go.”
“John, Thomas, Joseph, can there be a Cat in the room?” demanded the embarrassed host of the servants.
“Quite impossible, sir;—have not seen such a hanimal about the place since I comed, any way.”
“Well, look under the table, at any rate; the lady says she feels it; look in every corner of the room, and let us try to convince her.”
“My dear, my dear!” remonstrated the annoyed bridegroom from a distant part of the table; “what trouble you are giving.”
“Indeed, I would rather leave the room,” said the little bride, slipping from her chair. But, meanwhile, the servants ostentatiously bustled in their unwilling search for what they believed to be a phantom fancy of the young lady’s brain; when, lo! one of the footmen took hold of a half-closed window-shutter, and from the aperture behind out sprang a large cat into the midst of the astonished circle, eliciting cries and exclamations from others than the finely organised bride, who clasped her hands rigidly, and gasped with pallid lips.
Such facts as this are curious, certainly, and remain a puzzle to philosophers.
This habit of hiding itself in secret places is one of the most unpleasant characteristics of the Cat. I know many instances of it—especially of a night alarm when we were children, ending in a strange cat being found in a clothes bag.