It was quite a shock to find when one stroked her that the China Cat, though alive, was still china, hard, cold, and smooth to the touch, and yet perfectly brisk and absolutely bendable as any flesh and blood cat.
‘Dear, dear white pussy,’ said Tavy, ‘I do love you.’
‘And I love you,’ purred the Cat, ‘otherwise I should never have lowered myself to begin a conversation.’
‘I wish you were a real cat,’ said Tavy.
[p153]
‘I am,’ said the Cat. ‘Now how shall we amuse ourselves? I suppose you don’t care for sport—mousing, I mean?’
‘I never tried,’ said Tavy, ‘and I think I rather wouldn’t.’
‘Very well then, Octavius,’ said the Cat. ‘I’ll take you to the White Cat’s Castle. Get into bed. Bed makes a good travelling carriage, especially when you haven’t any other. Shut your eyes.’
Tavy did as he was told. Shut his eyes, but could not keep them shut. He opened them a tiny, tiny chink, and sprang up. He was not in bed. He was on a couch of soft beast-skin, and the couch stood in a splendid hall, whose walls were of gold and ivory. By him stood the White Cat, no longer china, but real live cat—and fur—as cats should be.
‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘The journey didn’t take long, did it? Now we’ll have that splendid supper, out of the fairy tale, with the invisible hands waiting on us.’
She clapped her paws—paws now as soft as white velvet—and a table-cloth floated into the room; then knives and forks and spoons and glasses, the table was laid, the dishes drifted in, and they began to eat. There happened to be every single thing Tavy liked best to eat. After supper there was music and singing, and [p154 Tavy, having kissed a white, soft, furry forehead, went to bed in a gold four-poster with a counterpane of butterflies’ wings. He awoke at home. On the mantelpiece sat the White Cat, looking as though butter would not melt in her mouth. And all her furriness had gone with her voice. She was silent—and china.