It was out of the basket suddenly and across the room. Ethel gave a piercing scream. It met Jumble in the hall, and a mad chase ensued—scampering down the hall—round the drawing-room—the crashing of a small table and all its ornaments—the ferocious growling of Jumble—then silence.
"I can't stand much more of this," said Mrs. Brown. "I don't know what's the matter, or what the animal is, or whether it's killed Jumble or Jumble's killed it—but how any man could send ... for a Christmas present, too.... William your finger's bleeding, and it's covered with dirt. You'd better go and wash it."
"Yes, mother," said William meekly.
Then he saw a man coming up the drive carrying a dirty, bedraggled white cat.
"Look!" he said in an awe-struck voice, "That's him."
"It's Mr. Romford," said Ethel.
She went out into the hall. The conversation was distinctly audible.
"How d'you do, Miss Brown! I'm afraid there's been some little accident. I've——"
"Thank you very much," said Ethel, coldly. "But we don't want any more cats here."
"I'm afraid there's been a mis——"