"Won't you speak to her?" she whispered, very, very softly.
Instantly both cats lifted their right paws.
"You see," replied Hugh, looking at Jeanne reproachfully, "they're getting angry."
On this the cats wheeled right round and looked at the children.
"I don't care," said Jeanne, working herself up. "I don't care. It's not our fault. They said she was waiting for us, and they made us come in."
"'She is the cat,' so I've been told," said a soft voice suddenly. "And 'don't care;' something was once spun about 'don't care,' I think."
Immediately the two cats threw themselves on the ground, apparently in an agony of grief.
"She the cat," they cried. "Oh, what presumption! And who said 'don't care'? Oh dear! oh dear! who would have thought of such a thing?"
The lady lifted her head, and looked at the cats and the children. There was a curious expression on her face, as if she had just awakened. Her eyes were very soft blue, softer and dreamier than Hugh's, and her mouth, even while it smiled, had a rather sad look. But the look of her whole face was very—I can't find a very good word for it. It seemed to ask you questions, and yet to know more about you than you did yourself. It was impossible not to keep looking at her once you had begun.
"Hush, cats," were the next words she said. "Don't be silly; it's nearly as bad as being surprised."