I took her in again, and argued the point a little.
I told her that she was behaving in a very vulgar and forward manner, and that no nice Tom would respect her. She merely looked up in my face and said “a - - - ow.”
Then I said I would not have made any objection if he had been a gentleman, but he was so exceedingly common and ill-bred.
But she still looked with pathetic topaz eyes, and opened a little pink mouth with a deprecating mew.
I felt much as if, “with a little hoard of maxims,” I was “preaching down a daughter’s heart.”
And what was worse, it did no good. Every time the door was opened, however much Pasht was pretending to be devoted to me, she suddenly found she had urgent business in the kitchen, and flew downstairs; and when I, knowing the nature of the little flirt, did not go down to the kitchen at all, but straight out of the long window on to the lawn and found her there, she looked up with the most innocent face possible,—“Yes; after all, I see you enjoy the sunshine as much as I do.” When, in spite of kicks and struggles, I carried her in, she never once said “wwoww,” but merely gave vent to the emphatic mew which means, “I don’t want to go in.”
I took her an airing in my arms that day, but it was extremely exhausting, and I covered my dress with long hair.
And all that night the cat mewed.
Another exploring party went from the house with shovel and tongs.
I couldn’t stand it any longer. Pasht was sent away to a very strict boarding-school system at the farm.