"She can't!" said the Cat-made-of-worsted. "She can't come to you. She hasn't got any legs. I know it. I'm fifty years old. I never saw them."
"Never mind the Cat," said the Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound.
"But I do mind the Cat," said she, weeping. "I haven't. It's all pen-wiper."
"Do I care?" said he.
"She has thoughts," said the bronze Monk-reading-a-book. "That lasts longer than beauty. And she is solid behind."
"And she has no hinge in her back," grinned the Cat-made-of-worsted. "Come, neighbors, let us congratulate them. You begin."
"Keep out of disagreeable company," said the bronze Monk-reading-a-book.
"That is not congratulation; that is advice," said the Cat-made-of-worsted. "Never mind, go on, my dear,"—to the Parian girl. "What! nothing to say? Then I'll say it for you. 'Friends, may your love last as long as your courtship.' Now I'll congratulate you."
But before he could speak, the Audience got up.
"You shall not say a word. It must end happily."