"Yes, Sophy, go there and wait," said Janet; and Sophy went.
Janet tripped lightly across the tiled hall.
The servant opened the door of the morning room and then turned to inquire the young lady's name.
"Miss Janet May," was the response.
"Miss Janet May!" shouted the servant, and Janet found the door closed behind her.
A severe looking woman, primly dressed, was seated by a round mahogany table. In the center of the table sat a snow-white and very beautiful Persian cat; a dark tabby of the same species was lapping a saucer of milk also on the table; some Persian kittens gamboled about the room. Miss Simpkins was bending over the tabby. She raised her eyes now and murmured, half to herself, half to Janet, "She has taken exactly a tenth of a pint of milk! That is a great improvement on yesterday."
"I am sure of it," said Janet, entering into the spirit of the thing without a moment's delay; "and what an exquisite cat! and oh! what a beauty that white one is! I do admire Persian cats!"
"Do you, my dear?" said the old lady. "This cat—Cherry Ripe I call her—has won several prizes at the Crystal Palace. This tabby—his name is Pompey—will also, I expect, be a prize-winner. These two kittens that you see on the floor, Marcus Aurelius and Mark Antony, have been sent to me direct from Persia. They are most valuable animals. The Persian cat is a curious and remarkable creature. Don't you think so? so sadly delicate! so fragilely beautiful! so sensitive and refined in every movement! Breed is shown in each of its actions. These cats are lovely—almost too lovely—and yet, my dear, whatever care you take of them, they all suffer more or less from bronchitis! they all swallow their long hairs when they wash themselves! and they all die young. Beautiful darlings! it is too touching to think of your inevitable fate!"
Miss Simpkins, as she spoke, stroked the snow-white Persian with her long, slender fingers.
Janet murmured some words of rapture, and the old lady asked her to seat herself.