Myra looked up from her writing.
“David,” she said, “I am positive I heard a cat outside.”
The man only growled, settled himself deeper in his comfortable chair, and continued to read.
The giant breath of the blizzard rattled the windows. The snow flung itself wrathfully against the panes. Outside it was bitter cold.
“I can’t bear to think of a cat outside on a night like this,” continued Myra.
“Forget it!” exclaimed David, arousing himself. “You are continually thinking of cats. All that I hear from you is cats. You dream of cats, you occupy your mind with cats. I heard no cat crying outside. It is only your imagination.”
“No; I heard a cat—I am sure,” insisted Myra.
It was warm inside. David sat beneath a green-shaded reading lamp. The pyramid of light fell on his tall figure, attired in a dressing-gown and slippers, slouched comfortably in the chair.
Myra sat at a desk, scribbling in a book, now and then tapping her lips with her penholder. She wore a clinging, yellow negligée, and her hair was done back tightly on her head. In her sleek, brown coil of hair at the back there was a large Spanish comb.
“David; I know I heard a cat then!” she cried, throwing down her pen. “You surely must have heard it, too.”