“No,” said Christopher.
“Well, sit down, both of you,” said Miss Seaton, “and let us talk it over.” So they sat down, and Claire took up one of the cats and stroked it behind the ears, and Miss Seaton asked them a number of questions.
After a while she rang the bell for the butler, who creaked in and out and then in again with cake and a rather good syrup to mix with water; and they gradually became quite friendly, not only with Miss Seaton, but with each of the cats in turn.
“Are there any more?” Claire asked.
“No, only seven,” said Miss Seaton. “I never have more and I never have fewer.”
“Do you give them all names?” said Claire.
“Of course,” said Miss Seaton. “That is partly why there are only seven. I name them after the days of the week.”
“Oh!” thought Claire again, “if only Betty were here!”
“The black one there, with the white front, is Sunday,” Miss Seaton continued. “That all black one is Monday—black Monday, you know. The tortoiseshell is Friday. The sandy one is Saturday.”
“It was on Saturday,” said Christopher, “that the best organ of all used to come, the one with a new tune every week.”