“Does any one pet her?” Jimmy Dory used to ask.
“Yes,” I said, “but she doesn't care to be too much handled. A caress now and then is all that she wants. She likes Mrs. Denville better than any one. She sits in the drawing-room with her the greater part of the time.”
This habit of Serena's of sitting in the drawing-room was rather a trial to me, for Mrs. Denville sat up late, and Serena never would come to bed until that lady did. She loved the pretty gowns of Mrs. Denville's friends, and the music and talk, and the sweet cakes and tea, and the admiration she excited.
I didn't mind that part of it, but what I did mind was having Serena come walking boldly to bed long after Mary and I were asleep. She always woke me up with a stroke of her paw, and made me run my tongue all over her body to compose her nerves for the night, she said. It was nice for her nerves, but discomposing for mine, and that is why the time of her coming to Beacon Street is rather confused in my mind. I had no chance to think it over properly, for she deprived me of my rest and made me sleepy all the time.
I just forget how long Serena was there before we broke up. I think it was about a fortnight. Then a child next door had scarlet fever, and Mrs. Denville was in a great fright on account of her own daughter. She bundled little Mary right out of the house, and the child went in such a hurry that of all her pets she was only able to secure me. Her nurse went with her, and for some days we were with Mary's grandmother, a fashionable old lady who had a suite of rooms in a big hotel.
I don't know why old ladies like to live in hotels. I should think if the feeling of having so many people in a house was bad for a young cat, it would be worse for an old woman. However, Mary's grandmother liked it. Her name was Mrs. Ainslee.
I was nearly crazy. There was no noise, no confusion, only a great many well-dressed people, but it seemed to me that I should suffocate. There were so many curtains and draperies, so many thick carpets, and so much dark wood, and such a smell of rich food. I don't think the human beings minded the food smell as much as I did. In the open air I should have liked it, but in this hotel it made me miserable. I could not eat well, nor sleep well. I was cross and disagreeable, and my tongue became coated. Mary never took me to drive here. Her grandmother would not let her, and the only outing I had was a short time every day, when I was allowed to go on a balcony and look out over the city. We were pretty high up, and it made me melancholy to see how far I would have to jump to get to the street. However, I had no thought of running away. I was not miserable enough for that, but how I did wish that Mary's grandmother was a poor woman, living in a house with a yard.
Well, an end came to it. One day there was a great talking between Mary and her nurse, and I caught the word “Maine” several times repeated. Then Mary came and caught me up.
“To-morrow morning, darling Pussy,” she said, “we are going to lovely Maine. We are all to meet at the station. Oh! how perfectly beautiful! I shall be with mamma and papa again!”
I was so pleased that I did not know what to do. When Mary put me down, I went and crowded myself against one of the closed windows, and looked at the busy street below. I could not think, for I had a dull headache. But I just felt happy. Mrs. Ainslee, being an old lady, hated the cold, and she kept her rooms at a suffocating heat all the time.