"I should think not," replied her friend; "but this is only a cat."
"And a cat that we both love as dearly as you love your children."
My rage at being called a "Tom cat" knew no bounds; it seemed to degrade me, and I thought to myself, "How can I avenge this insult?"
One can always find a chance to do wrong, and mine came at once. I espied her hat, gorgeous with feathers, birds, and wings, and brilliant beading. To my great discomfort—for it was very scratchy—I seated myself on the crown. I had no compunction when I heard the crunching of the beads and feathers, as I bent them under me. They seemed to say, "Tom cat,—indeed!"
I sat there till I felt pride had been sufficiently levelled; and as I chewed the delicate end of one of the expensive feathers, I felt that I might (in vulgar phrase) call myself even with her. Then I went under the bed, where I could with safety witness the impending tempest.
I was not disappointed. Words are powerless to express her wrath. Had her wishes been consulted, I should never have seen the light of another day.
When I saw how my mistress was distressed over my wickedness, my conscience did prick a little, though I did not repent. I had been called a "Tom cat," and for once I acted like one.
The climax was reached when Miss Eleanor produced a box containing a lovely wing and ornaments, and placed them where the broken ones had been. She said:—
"I do not approve of such decorations. Were I young, I would never wear anything that had been killed to pander to a foolish vanity. These were given me to put with some flowers and grasses for exhibition. If you will accept them in place of those our naughty pet has destroyed, I shall feel we have atoned for his thoughtlessness."
Accept! I guess she did, and in her heart thanked me for giving her such a treasure, though she gave me a cross look at parting, which I returned in full and longed to give her an etching.