“Well, you may be whatever breed you like,” said Serena with a toss of her head. “I am going to be Angora, pure and simple. I shall say we are only half-sisters.”
“And I shall contradict you.”
She paused for a few minutes, and surveyed me angrily. “Black-Face, you are a teasing little wretch. I wish I had left you at home.”
“That cat behind the box is listening to all you say,” I remarked. “You do not know how clear your voice is. Now, don't try that thoroughbred trick, or he will expose you, if I don't.”
“I am sure he could not have heard us,” replied Serena in a confident tone.
“Very well,” I replied. “Suppose we speak kindly to this cat. He looks much disturbed.”
“I would rather inspire respect than familiarity,” replied Serena tossing her head. “I am going to cry for milk. Good-bye,” and she walked away.
“How do you do?” I inquired going up to the box. “What is your name?”
“Whoop! Bang!” he exclaimed, suddenly opening his eyes and turning a flying somersault out into the room, “my name's Joker—what for the land's sake, is yours?”
I opened my eyes in undisguised astonishment. This cat was neither shy nor frightened. He was a huge, ungainly young fellow, most peculiarly marked, for one side was white, and the other was Maltese gray, and his manner was bold and assured.