My mother pushed her spectacles on to her forehead, and, looking severely at Ann, said: "Which one, Ann? My summer bonnet, or—my winter bonnet?"
"The one with the fur lining, ma'am."
"And a most comfortable bonnet to live in, I'm sure!" replied my mother sarcastically, as much as to say that she wished all cats had such a choice under the circumstances. "Another cat would have chosen the one with the lace and the violets, out of sheer perverseness. But there—I knew I could depend on a cat which had been trained in my house."
My mother poured out a cup of tea, betraying no agitation as she dropped two lumps of sugar into the cup—her customary allowance—and helped herself to cream. In a minute or two, however, she took up her knitting, and I noticed that two stitches in succession were dropped, a sure sign that she was perturbed in spirit. Suddenly my mother turned her eyes to the fire.
"How many, Ann?" she continued, addressing our faithful servant, who still remained standing at the table awaiting her orders.
"Seven, ma'am."
"Seven!" cried my mother. "Seven—it's outrageous. Why, my bonnet wouldn't hold 'em!"
"Three in the bonnet, ma'am, and two in your new m-u-f-f!"
"My new muff!" cried my mother. "I knew you were keeping something back." And the stitches dropped fast and furious. "That's only five, Ann," she continued, looking up from her work. "Where are the other two? I insist upon knowing."
"In the Alaska tail boa, ma'am," responded Ann, timidly.