Blizzard bowed again, yet more humbly. “Am I mistaken in supposing,” he continued meekly, “that you are of pure Angora blood, and that your forebears probably came from the celebrated cat-farm not very far from us in this state?”
Serena glanced at me. “My father is a thoroughbred Angora,” she said, “and he did come from Maine.”
“Then it's just as I supposed,” continued Blizzard. “Kneel down, Rosy,” and the old hypocrite, for such I fear he is, made his wife kneel at Serena's feet.
“Honor youth, and beauty, and high lineage, madam,” he continued firmly, “and if you cannot look like this young cat, at least act like her.”
This was the time for Serena to confess that she was only half Angora, that her mother was a back-yard cat. However, she did not do it, and I did not feel called upon to put her to shame.
Blizzard went on blarneying her. He paid no attention to Slyboots and me, and we gazed irritably at each other.
“Madam,” he said flatteringly, “the country is infested with tramp cats.”
“It isn't,” whispered Slyboots in my ear, “Aunt Tabby told me it isn't.”
Blizzard went on. “And being one of the guardians of the peace about here, whenever I see a strange cat, I fly at it.”
This was too much for Serena, and she said, “But are you not sometimes in danger of mauling the wrong cat? All cats are not bad.”