"If it comes to that, there's rather a good one on the arm of your chair," she said.
"Yes. By the same artist, too. But the one on the table knocks it. That'll be hung on the line year after year."
"What line?"
"At the Academy of Hearts. I beg your pardon, my dear. It slipped out."
Silvia threw back her dainty head and laughed merrily. Presently:
"But the one on the table's damaged," she said. "Didn't you see the scratch?"
"And the one on the chair wants cleaning badly. In its present state they wouldn't hang it anywhere except at Pentonville. But the scratch. How did you get it?"
"Ah! That was the Marquis. We were by the window, and when you slipped that strap round, he jumped like anything. He was in my arms, you see."
"I'm awfully sorry; but do you often embrace nobles, and how do you say good-bye to dukes? I mean to say, I haven't got my patent with me, and my coronet's in the store—I mean, strong room; but anyone who doesn't know me will tell you—Besides, I never scratch."
"The Marquis is a Blue Persian."