“He's makin' game of her,” whispered Slyboots in my ear.
“Of course he is,” I returned, “but hush! listen.”
“For you know, cats and kittens,” continued Blizzard persuasively, “we know nothing in the country, we are sunk in ignorance, our minds are low and degraded, our manners are repulsive and vulgar.”
A groan rose from the assembly of cats, but he motioned with his paw and it subsided.
“Now, friends, listen attentively to this ladylike cat, this thoroughbred, pure-bred Angora—”
I groaned myself here, for the exquisite sarcasm of his tone told me that Joker had informed him that Serena was only half-bred.
“Try to remember what she says,” pursued Blizzard, “try to live up to it—in short, try to be more like city cats, less like vulgar, countrified felines—and now, without further preamble, I will introduce to you the learned lecturer and exponent of cat rights and cat culture, Miss Serena Angora Maybelle Prince, of Boston.”
I gasped at the long name. My sister had probably improvised it for the occasion.
She certainly was a very ladylike-looking cat as she gracefully bowed to Blizzard, who was retiring with a grin to the back of the stump, and then with equal grace bowed to her attentive audience.
“My friends,” she said in a very sweet voice, “I stand before you this evening quite unprepared. I have only a few hastily thrown-together notes on cat-life and cat-character, which I beg your indulgence to receive,” and then she proceeded to give a most elaborate and carefully thought-out address on cats.