"Would you like to see Hafiz?" she asked.
He turned quickly toward her: "Yes," he said, the ghost of a smile lining the corners of his eyes.
"He's on my bed, asleep. Will you come?"
Slipping along the edges of the dancing floor and stepping daintily over the rolled rugs, she led the way through the passage to her rose and ivory bedroom, Clive following.
Hafiz opened his eyes and looked across at them from the pillow, stood up, his back rounding into a furry arch; yawned, stretched first one hind leg and then the other, and finally stood, flexing his forepaws and uttering soft little mews of recognition and greeting.
"I wonder," she said, smilingly, "if you have any idea how much Hafiz has meant to me?"
He made no reply; but his face grew sombre and he laid a lean, muscular hand on the cat's head.
Neither spoke again for a little while. Finally his hand fell from the appreciative head of Hafiz, dropping inert by his side, and he stood looking at the floor. Then there was the slightest touch on his arm, and he turned to go; but she did not move; and they confronted each other, alone, and after many years.
Suddenly she stretched out both hands, looking him full in the eyes, her own brilliant with tears: