n the edge of the table. She has her own place set, without
fork or spoon, but with her glass. She eats of every course that is
brought on, from the soup to the dessert, always waiting for her turn to
be served and behaving with a discretion and decency that it is to be
wished were more frequently met with in children. She turns up at the
first sound of the bell, and when we enter the dining-room we are sure
to find her already in her place, standing on her chair, her paws on the
edge of the table, and holding up her little head to be kissed, like a
well-bred young lady who is polite and affectionate towards her parents
and her elders.

The sun has its spots, the diamond its flaws, and perfection itself its
little weak points. Eponine, it must be owned, has an overmastering
fondness for fish, a taste she shares in common with all her race. The
Latin proverb, _Catus amat pisces, sed non vult tingere plantas_, to the
contrary notwithstanding, she is always ready to pop her paw into the
water to fish out a blay, a small carp, or a trout. Fish makes her
well-nigh delirious, and like children eagerly looking for the dessert,
she is apt to object to the soup, when the preliminary investigations
she has carried on in the kitchen have enabled her to ascertain that the
fish has duly come in and that there is no reason why Vatel should run
himself through with his sword. In such cases we do not help her to
fish, and I remark to her, in a cold tone, "A lady who has no appetite
for soup cannot have any appetite for fish," and the dish is
remorselessly sent past her. Then seeing that it is no joking matter,
dainty Eponine bolts her soup in hot haste, licks up the very last drop
of the bouillon, puts away the minutest crumb of bread or Italian paste,
and turns round to me with the proud look of one conscious of being
without fear or reproach and of having fulfilled her duty. Her share of
the fish is handed to her, and she despatches it with every mark of
extreme satisfaction. Then, having tasted a little of every dish, she
winds up her meal by drinking one-third of a glassful of water.

If we happen to have guests at dinner, Eponine does not need to have
seen them enter to be aware that there is to be company. She simply
looks at her place, and if she sees a knife, fork, and spoon laid there,
she makes off at once and perches on the piano stool, her usual place of
refuge in such cases. Those who deny reasoning powers to animals may