"Whose rug is she sitting on?" I said.
"Pomfret's."
"Pomfret is but the bailee of the rug, Alice."
"Oh," she cried, "he's going to be a barrister!"
"Talking of cats," I said stiffly, "and speaking as counsel of five years' standing—"
I stopped, for she was on her feet now, facing me, and standing very close, with her hands behind her and a tilted chin, looking into my eyes.
"Talking of what, did you say?"
For a second I hesitated. Then:
"Gnats," I said.
She turned and resumed her place on the fallen tree. "Now you're going on with your rehearsal," she announced. "I'll hear you."