She had been nervously fingering the necklace of gold beads at her throat; and suddenly she uttered a distressed cry. The string had broken, and the beads fell in a yellow shower to the rug.
She climbed down on her knees beside him and picked up the beads, one by one.
“Let them go,” he urged cheerfully, noting her distress. “Come back. I’ll be anybody you choose. Even Samson.”
That extinguished light seemed to have been turned on again. She looked up at him smiling. “No, I don’t want you to be Samson,” she said. “And I don’t want to lose my beads.”
He regarded her happily. She looked very little and soft there on the rug. “You look like a kitten,” he declared.
She picked up the last bead and looked at the unstable baubles in her pink left palm. She tilted her hand so that they rolled back and forth. “Could a kitten look at a king?” she asked with mock earnestness.
“I should think it could, if there happened to be any king about.”
She continued to make the beads roll about on her hand. “I’m going to be a kitten,” she declared with decision. “Would you like me to be a kitten?” She raised herself on her knees and propped her right hand behind her on the rug for support. She was looking earnestly into his eyes.
“If you’d like to be,” he replied.
“Hold your hand,” she commanded. She poured the beads into his immense, hard palm. “Don’t spill them.” She turned about on the rug on hands and knees, and crept away to the middle of the floor. She turned and arose to her knees, and rested both hands before her on the floor. She held her head high and meowed twice so realistically that Harboro leaned forward, regarding her with wonder. She lowered herself and turned and crept to the window. There she lifted herself a little and patted the tassel which hung from the blind. She continued this with a certain sedateness and concentration until the tassel went beyond her reach and caught in the curtain. Then she let herself down again, and crawled to the middle of the floor. Now she was on her knees, her hands on the floor before her, her body as erect as she could hold it. Again she meowed—this time with a certain ennui; and finally she raised one arm and rubbed it slowly to and fro behind her ear.... She quickly assumed a defensive attitude, crouching fiercely. An imaginary dog had crossed her path. She made an explosive sound with her lips. She regained her tranquillity, staring with slowly returning complacency and contempt while the imaginary dog disappeared.