"Now sit down, Mitsos," said his father. "Who is going to taste a slapping?"
The boy's face, which had grown grave as he received the priest's blessing, dimpled into smiles again.
"Why, my cat, Psepséka," he said. "The greedy woman was going down to the cellar where I put the fish, and I went after her and caught her by the tail. She spit at me like a little she-devil. Then she scratched me, and I let go. But soon I will catch her again, and she shall pay for it all twice over, Turkish fashion. See!"
He held out a big brown hand, down which Psepséka had scored three red lines.
"What a fierce woman!" said his father. "But you're overbig to run about after little cats. You're eighteen now, Mitsos, and your uncle comes here this evening. He'll think you're a boy still."
The boy looked up from his examination of his hand.
"Uncle Nicholas?" he asked.
"Yes. Go and wash your hand, and then lay the table. Put some eggs to boil, and get out some bread and cheese, and pick some cherries."
Mitsos got up.
"Will the father eat with us?"