under the bed-covers, made me doubt my reason. I recognized George Moore. Presently I made out another puss, sitting beside a basket full of kittens in the corner near the wardrobe.
I must introduce you, explained Peter, to the mother of George Moore's progeny. This is George Sand.
By this time I was a fit subject for the asylum. Even the Persian cats did not set me right. Happy or not, the man was evidently poor.
I suppose I would insult you if I offered you a job, I stuttered at last.
A job! Carl, don't you know that I simply will not work?
Well, and I found this even more difficult than my first proposal, I hope you won't misunderstand. . . . I haven't much. . . but you must permit me to give you some money.
Money! What for?
Why, for you. . . .
Comprehending at last, Peter threw back his head and began to laugh.
But I don't need money. . . I never had so little use for it. Do you'realize what it costs me to live here? About $15 a week. That includes every item, even fresh beef for my cats, I was about to tell you, if you had given me time—you always interrupt—that I simply don't know what to do with my money. Stocks have gone up. The labourers in the factories at Little Falls are working overtime
