the Queen, "object to a cat that did not look like a cat?"
"Oh, no," cried she, earnestly, "just so it's a cat!"
"Would your majesty," said the doctor again, turning to the King, "object to a cat that did not look like a cat?"
"Oh, no," cried he, "just so it doesn't look like a cat!"
"Well," said the doctor, beaming, "I have a cat that is a cat and that doesn't look any more like a cat than a skillet, and I should be only too honoured to present it to the Queen if she would be so gracious as to accept it."
Both the King and the Queen were overjoyed and thanked the doctor with tears in their eyes. So the cat—for it was a cat though you never would have known it—arrived and was duly presented to the Queen, who welcomed it with open arms and felt better immediately.
It was a thin, wiry, long-legged creature, with no tail at all, and large ears like sails, a face like a lean icoscles triangle with the nose as a very sharp apex, eyes small and yellow like flat buttons, brown fur short and coarse, and large floppy feet. It had a voice like a steam siren and its name was Rosamund.
The King and Queen were both devoted to it; she because it was a cat, he because it seemed anything but a cat. No one indeed could convince the King that it was not a beautiful animal, and he had made for it a handsome collar of gold and amber—"to match," he said, sentimentally, "its lovely eyes." In sooth so ugly a beast never had such a pampered and luxurious ex-
