“Even these stones have absorbed something of our atmosphere,” said the Grey Cat. “Nine-tenths of the trouble in this world comes from lack of detachment.”
“One of your people died from forgetting that, didn’t she?” said the Rat.
“One only. The example has sufficed us for generations.”
“Ah! but what happened to Don’t Care?” the Waters demanded.
“Brutal riding to death of the casual analogy is another mark of provincialism!” The Grey Cat raised her tufted chin. “I am going to sleep. With my social obligations I must snatch rest when I can; but, as our old friend here says, Noblesse oblige…. Pity me! Three functions to-night in the village, and a barn dance across the valley!”
“There’s no chance, I suppose, of your looking in on the loft about two. Some of our young people are going to amuse themselves with a new sacque-dance—best white flour only,” said the Black Rat.
“I believe I am officially supposed not to countenance that sort of thing, but youth is youth.… By the way, the humans set my milk-bowl in the loft these days; I hope your youngsters respect it.”
“My dear lady,” said the Black Rat, bowing, “you grieve me. You hurt me inexpressibly. After all these years, too!”
“A general crush is so mixed—highways and hedges—all that sort of thing—and no one can answer for one’s best friends. I never try. So long as mine are amusin’ and in full voice, and can hold their own at a tile-party, I’m as catholic as these mixed waters in the dam here!”
“We aren’t mixed. We have mixed. We are one now,” said the Waters sulkily.