"It's been a huge success," I said encouragingly.
"That boy has had his legs crossed in that position and hasn't spoken for ten minutes. Stiffer and stiffer. Brittle. He's beginning a dry cough—always a bad sign, George. . . . Walk 'em about, shall I?—rub their noses with snow?"
Happily she didn't. I got myself involved with the gentlewoman from next door, a pensive, languid-looking little woman with a low voice, and fell talking; our topic, Cats and Dogs, and which it was we liked best.
"I always feel," said the pensive little woman, "that there's something about a dog. A cat hasn't got it."
"Yes," I found myself admitting with great enthusiasm, "there is something. And yet again."
"Oh! I know there's something about a cat too. But it isn't the same."
"Not quite the same," I admitted; "but still it's something."
"Ah! But such a different something!"
"More sinuous."
"Much more."
"Ever so much more." . . .
"It makes all the difference, don't you think?"
"Yes," I said, "all."
She glanced at me gravely and sighed a long, deep-felt "Yes."
A long pause.
The thing seemed to me to amount to a stale-mate. Fear came into my heart and much perplexity.
"The -er, Roses," I said. I felt like a drowning man. "Those roses—don't you think they are—very beautiful flowers?"
"Aren't they!" she agreed gently. "There seems
