“Tell Ermine I’ll come to see her,” said Leuesa, “and bring the children too.”
“We have a Derette as well as you,” replied Stephen with a smile. “She is the baby. Our boys are Gerard and Osbert, and our elder girls Agnes and Edild—my mother’s name, you know.”
As Stephen opened the door of his house that evening, Gib came to meet him with erect tail.
“Well, old fellow!” said Stephen, rubbing his ears—a process to which Gib responded with loud purrs. “I have seen a man to-day who is afraid to touch you. I don’t think you would do much to him—would you, now?”
“That’s nice—go on!” replied Gib, purring away.
Leuesa lost no time in coming to see Ermine. She brought her two little girls, of whom the elder, aged five years, immediately fell in love with the baby, while the younger, aged three, being herself too much of a baby to regard infants with any sentiment but disdain, bestowed all her delicate attentions upon Gib. Stephen declared laughingly that he saw he should keep the pasty.
“Well, really, it does look very like a cat!” said the mercer, eyeing Gib still a little doubtfully.
“Very like, indeed,” replied Stephen, laughing again. “I never saw anything that looked more like one.”
“There’s more than one at Oxford would like to see you, Ermine, and Stephen too,” said Leuesa.
“Mother Isel would, and Derette,” was Ermine’s answer. “I am not so sure of any one else.”