When the door was opened, the cat walked in.
'Micio! Micio!' called Hermione, in her slow, deliberate sing-song. The
young cat turned to look at her, then, with his slow and stately walk
he advanced to her side.
'Vieni--vieni qua,' Hermione was saying, in her strange caressive,
protective voice, as if she were always the elder, the mother superior.
'Vieni dire Buon' Giorno alla zia. Mi ricorde, mi ricorde bene--non he
vero, piccolo? E vero che mi ricordi? E vero?' And slowly she rubbed
his head, slowly and with ironic indifference.
'Does he understand Italian?' said Ursula, who knew nothing of the
language.
'Yes,' said Hermione at length. 'His mother was Italian. She was born
in my waste-paper basket in Florence, on the morning of Rupert's
birthday. She was his birthday present.'
Tea was brought in. Birkin poured out for them. It was strange how
inviolable was the intimacy which existed between him and Hermione.
Ursula felt that she was an outsider. The very tea-cups and the old
silver was a bond between Hermione and Birkin.
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