"They are so soft and pussy," said Jane.
"And valuable," said Anthea, hastily. "We can sell them for lots and lots of money."
"Why not send the carpet to get food for them?" suggested the Phœnix, and its golden voice became harsh and cracked with the effort it had to make to be heard above the increasing fierceness of the Persian mews.
So it was written that the carpet should bring food for one hundred and ninety-nine Persian cats, and the paper was pinned to the carpet as before.
The carpet seemed to gather itself together, and the cats dropped off it as rain-drops do from your mackintosh when you shake it. And the carpet disappeared.
Unless you have had one hundred and ninety-nine well-nourished Persian cats in one small room, all hungry, and all saying so in unmistakable mews, you can form but a poor idea of the noise that now deafened the children and the Phœnix.
The cats mewed and mewed and mewed, and twisted their Persian forms in and out and unfolded their Persian tails, and the children and the Phœnix huddled together by the door.
The Phœnix, Robert noticed suddenly, was trembling.
"So many cats," it said, "and they might not know I was the Phœnix. These accidents happen so quickly. It quite unmans me."
This was a danger of which the children had not thought.