He sat on the table swinging his legs. His dark, mournful eyes watched
Mark under their doggy scowl. He looked like Tibby, the terrier that
Mamma sent away because Papa teased him.
"Sarah isn't your cat either, Master Daniel. Your Aunt Charlotte gave her to your Mamma, and your Mamma gave her to Master Mark."
"She ought to have given her to me. She took my dog away."
"I gave her to you," said Mark.
"And I gave her to you back again."
"Well then, she's half our cat."
"I want her," said Mary. She said it again and again.
Mamma came and took her into the room with the big bed.
The gas blazed in the white globes. Lovely white lights washed like water over the polished yellow furniture: the bed, the great high wardrobe, the chests of drawers, the twisted poles of the looking-glass. There were soft rounds and edges of blond light on the white marble chimney-piece and the white marble washstand. The drawn curtains were covered with shining silver patterns on a sleek green ground that shone. All these things showed again in the long, flashing mirrors.
Mary looked round the room and wondered why the squat grey men had gone out of the curtains.