Of course, I understood what he said, but she hadn't yet picked up a word of English; and if the master had begun to learn Persian, I don't suppose he had got much beyond the alphabet.
The Persian's mew was rather feebler that day, because she had a cold.
"I don't think it's so bad," said his friend. "If you really wanted to get rid of her, she is very handsome; she would take a prize anywhere."
"She is yours," said the master instantly; and the strange gentleman took her away in a basket.
That evening it was I who sat on my master's knee—I who superintended the writing of his letters on the green-covered writing table—I who had all the milk that was left over from his tea.
"I who superintended the writing of his letters."
In a few days he had a letter. I read it when he laid it down; and if you don't believe cats can read, I can only say that it is just as easy to read a letter like the master's as it is to write a story like this. The letter begged my master to take back the fair Persian.
"Her howls," the letter went on, "become worse and worse. The poor creature is, as you say, too deaf to be tolerated."
My master wrote back instantly to say that he would rather be condemned to keep a dog than have the fair Persian within his doors again.