As Slyboots said, the army of cats was coming toward us, and every word fell distinctly on our ears in the clear night air.
“Let me recapitulate,” Serena remarked: “This mole-hunt is to be ushered in by a grand battue, which, of course, you understand is the act of beating woods and bushes for game.”
“Exactly,” we heard Blizzard exclaim in a kind of ecstasy, “how you understand things, Miss Serena! How you dive into the heart of an affair,” and I could just imagine him turning round with a rapt grin to the cats behind him.
Slyboots, too, was disgusted, and grunted as Serena went on.
“I, as a guest you are delighted to honor, am placed by you at the entrance to a mole-hill. You retire with the other cats, and surrounding the game, drive it toward me. I catch it as it is about to enter its domicile,” and here Serena paused, and I could fancy her shudder, for she does not like catching things.
“Yes, yes,” vociferated Blizzard, “true, true—I wish these country cats to have an exhibition of your physical ability. They already know your mental equipment—they have had a sample of your powers of mind. Now I wish them to benefit by that grace of movement, that agility without awkwardness, which to such a high degree, distinguishes the city cat from the country cat.”
There was quite a round of applause and cat-yells at this, and I could imagine Serena's scruples giving away.
“I have never cared for catching mice,” she said in an easy voice, “but you say a mole-hunt is quite different.”
“Oh, yes,” responded Blizzard, “a mole is an exquisite little animal, far softer, far prettier than a mouse; it has a shorter tail, a pointed nose, and cunning pink claws. Its eyes are hardly to be seen. I assure you, you will not mind clasping its little body in your claws.”
“And when do we come to the mole-hills?” inquired Serena.