In the dining-room there was a slight commotion. Billy stood at her
chair with Spunk in her arms. Before her Pete was standing, dumbly
staring into her eyes. At last he stammered:
"Ma'am?"
"A chair, please, I said, for Spunk, you know. Spunk always sits at the
table right next to me."
It was too much for Bertram. He fled chokingly to the hall. William
dropped weakly into his own place. Cyril stared as had Pete; but Mrs.
Hartwell spoke.
"You don't mean--that that cat--has a chair--at the table!" she gasped.
"Yes; and isn't it cute of him?" beamed Billy, entirely misconstruing
the surprise in the lady's voice. "His mother always sat at table with
us, and behaved beautifully, too. Of course Spunk is little, and makes
mistakes sometimes. But he'll learn. Oh, there's a chair right here,"
she added, as she spied Bertram's childhood's high-chair, which for long
years had stood unused in the corner. "I'll just squeeze it right in
here," she finished gleefully, making room for the chair at her side.
When Bertram, a little red of face, but very grave, entered, the
dining-room a moment later, he found the family seated with Spunk snugly
placed between Billy and a plainly disgusted and dismayed brother,
Cyril. The kitten was alert and interested; but he had settled back in
his chair, and was looking as absurdly dignified as the flaring pink bow
would let him.
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