“I can manage all that.”
“I didn’t want to give way to it like this,” the woman said, “because I know you must be tired out yourself, but I really do feel quite done up now.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” replied Owen, who was really so fatigued that he was scarcely able to stand. “I’ll go and draw the blinds down and light the other lamp; so say good night to Frankie and come at once.”
“I won’t say good night properly, now, Mum,” remarked the boy, “because Dad can carry me into your room before he puts me into bed.”
A little later, as Owen was undressing Frankie, the latter remarked as he looked affectionately at the kitten, which was sitting on the hearthrug watching the child’s every movement under the impression that it was part of some game:
“What name do you think we ought to call it, Dad?”
“You may give him any name you like,” replied Owen, absently.
“I know a dog that lives down the road,” said the boy, “his name is Major. How would that do? Or we might call him Sergeant.”
The kitten, observing that he was the subject of their conversation, purred loudly and winked as if to intimate that he did not care what rank was conferred upon him so long as the commisariat department was properly attended to.
“I don’t know, though,” continued Frankie, thoughtfully. “They’re all right names for dogs, but I think they’re too big for a kitten, don’t you, Dad?”