The cat had reared her sinister, feline length against his leg, clawing at his thigh affectionately. He lifted her claws out of his flesh.
“I hope I’m not in your way at all at the Grange here,” said Bertie, rather shy and stiff.
“My way? No, not a bit. I’m glad Isabel has somebody to talk to. I’m afraid it’s I who am in the way. I know I’m not very lively company. Isabel’s all right, don’t you think? She’s not unhappy, is she?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What does she say?”
“She says she’s very content—only a little troubled about you.”
“Why me?”
“Perhaps afraid that you might brood,” said Bertie, cautiously.
“She needn’t be afraid of that.” He continued to caress the flattened grey head of the cat with his fingers. “What I am a bit afraid of,” he resumed, “is that she’ll find me a dead weight, always alone with me down here.”
“I don’t think you need think that,” said Bertie, though this was what he feared himself.