“Aye, the cat!” interrupted Ariel, in a caressing voice, the far-away, much-reverenced look of the poet in his eyes, “that cat is a copy from a—medal taken from—the sar-coph-a-gus of Tiglath Pileser II. Aye,” he added dreamily, “the cat, the sacred symbol of Egypt, holy to the Muses, beloved of——”
“Mr. Jenkins, ye don’t say so!” they all exclaimed, looking with curious glances at the oriel window.
“I will say,” nodded Mrs. Gomer Roberts, “that it has an uncommonly intelligent look.”
“Aye, so it has,” agreed Mrs. Parry Wynn, “intelligent an’—an’—lively.”
Betto Griffiths glanced about the little group shrewdly.
“An’ the stars, Mr. Jenkins?” she said.
“Tut, the star! Betto Griffiths, ye don’t say ye don’t know the meanin’ of the five-pointed star, sacred to history, to sacred history, guide in the——”
“Oh, aye!” interrupted Betto, “if that’s the star ye mean, I certainly do.”
The little gathering took a fresh look at the window; their eyes lingered reverently now on the emblazoned group of cat and stars leashed together with yellow rope.