It was Cyril who wrote the paper that told the carpet to take away the rats and bring milk, because there seemed to be no doubt in any breast that, however Persian cats may be, they must like milk.
"Let's hope it won't be musk-milk," said Anthea, in gloom, as she pinned the paper face-downwards on the carpet. "Is there such a thing as a musk-cow?" she added, anxiously, as the carpet shrivelled and vanished. "I do hope not. Perhaps, really, it would have been wiser to let the carpet take the cats away. It's getting quite late, and we can't keep them all night."
"Oh, can't we?" was the bitter rejoinder of Robert, who had been fastening the side door. "You might have consulted me," he went on. "I'm not such an idiot as some people."
"Why, whatever——"
"ROBERT AND CYRIL HELD THE COW BY THE HORNS."
"Don't you see? We've jolly well got to keep the cats all night—oh, get down, you furry beasts!—because we've had three wishes out of the old carpet now, and we can't get any more till to-morrow."
The liveliness of Persian mews alone prevented the occurrence of a dismal silence.
Anthea spoke first. "Never mind," she said. "Do you know, I really do think they're quieting down a bit. Perhaps they heard us say milk."
"They can't understand English," said Jane. "You forget they're Persian cats, Panther."