There was dead silence, and some surprise for a few seconds, while Mr Rigonda shut his eyes tight and remained perfectly still, during which brief lull the volcanic action in the cat ceased, and its fur slowly collapsed.
“Dreams shift and change so!” murmured the sceptical man, gradually opening his eyes again—“What! you’re there yet, Pina?”
“Of course I am, darling daddy.”
“Here, pinch me on the arm, Dominick—the tender part, else I’ll not waken up sufficiently to dispel it.”
A fresh outburst of hilarity, which started the stomachic volcanoes and hair afresh, while Pauline flung her arms round her father’s neck for the fiftieth time, and smothered him. When he was released, and partially recovered, Otto demanded to know if he really wanted the dream dispelled.
“Certainly not, my boy, certainly not, if it’s real; but it would be so dreadfully dismal to awake and find you all gone, that I’d prefer to dream it out, and turn to something else, if possible, before waking. I—I—”
Here the old gentleman suddenly seized his handkerchief, with a view to wipe his eyes, but, changing his mind, blew his nose instead.
Just then the door opened, and a small domestic entered with that eminently sociable meal, tea. With a final explosion, worthy of Hecla or Vesuvius, the cat shot through the doorway, as if from a catapult, and found refuge in the darkest recesses of the familiar coal-hole.
“But who,” said Mr Rigonda, casting his eyes suddenly downward, “who is this charming little brown-eyed maid that you have brought with you from the isles of the southern seas? A native—a little Fiji princess—eh?”
“Hush! father,” whispered Pauline in his ear, “she’s a dear little orphan who has adopted me as her mother, and would not be persuaded to leave me. So, you see, I’ve brought her home.”