"According to that theory"—said a critical friend, à propos of the last story but one—"susceptibility of 'discipline' would be the chief test of animal character, which means that the best dogs get their character from men. If so—"
"You pity the poor brutes?"
"Oh no. I was going to say that on that principle cats should have next to no character at all."
"They have plenty," I said, "but it's usually bad—at least hopelessly unromantic. Who ever heard of a heroic or self-denying cat? Cats do what they like, not what you want them to do."
He laughed. "Sometimes they do what you like very much. You haven't heard Mrs. Warburton-Kinneir's cat-story?"
"The Warburton-Kinneirs! I didn't know they were back in England."
"Oh yes. They've been six months in Hampshire, and now they are in town. She has Thursday afternoons."
"Good," I said, "I'll go the very next Friday, and take my chance. . . ."
Fortunately only one visitor appeared to tea. And as soon as I had explained my curiosity, he joined me in petitioning for the story which follows:— ····· Stoffles was her name, a familiar abbreviation, and Mephistophelian was her nature. She had all the usual
