unpardonable intrusions of the housemaid. On those
unhappy days when I am driven from my desk by the iron determination
of this maid to "clean up," my cat is as comfortless as I am.
Companions in exile, we wander aimlessly to and fro, lamenting our
lost hours. I cannot explain to Lux that the fault is none of mine,
and I am sure that she holds me to blame.

There is something indescribably sweet in the quiet, self-respecting
friendliness of my cat, in her marked predilection for my society.
The absence of exuberance on her part, and the restraint I put upon
myself, lend an element of dignity to our intercourse. Assured that
I will not presume too far on her good nature, that I will not indulge
in any of those gross familiarities, those boisterous gambols which
delight the heart of a dog, Lux yields herself more and more passively
to my persuasions. She will permit an occasional caress, and
acknowledge it with a perfunctory purr. She will manifest a
patronizing interest in my work, stepping sedately among my papers,
and now and then putting her paw with infinite deliberation on the
page I am writing, as though the smear thus contributed spelt, "Lux,
her mark," and was a reward of merit. But she never curls herself
upon my desk, never usurps the place sacred to the memory of a far
dearer cat. Some invisible influence restrains her. When her tour
of inspection is ended, she returns to her chair by my side,
stretching herself luxuriously on her cushions, and watching with
steady, sombre stare the inhibited spot, and the little grey phantom
which haunts my lonely hours by right of my inalienable love.

Lux is a lazy cat, wedded to a contemplative life. She cares little
for play, and nothing for work,--the appointed work of cats. The
notion that she has a duty to perform, that she owes service to the
home which shelters her, that only those who toil are worthy of their
keep, has never entered her head. She is content to drink the cream
of idleness, and she does this in a spirit of condescension,
wonderful to behold. The dignified distaste with which she surveys
a dinner not wholly to her liking, carries confusion to the hearts
of her servitors. It is as though Lucullus, having ordered Neapolitan
peacock, finds himself put off with nightingales' tongues.

For my own part, I like to think that my beautiful and urbane
companion is not a midnight assassin. Her profound and soulless
indifference to mice pleases me better than