tempted from his post. Put him down, and he will jump up again with plaintive murmurs of reproach. Sometimes he sits at your feet, looking into your face with an expression so gentle and caressing that the depth of his gaze startles you. Who can believe that there is no soul behind those luminous eyes!
"Don Pierrot de Navarre had a sweetheart as dazzlingly white as he was himself. By her side the ermine would have looked yellow. Seraphita, for so this lovely creature was named in honour of Balzac's Swedenborgian romance, was gentle, dreamy, and contemplative. She would sit motionless on her cushion for hours, wide awake, her eyes following, in a rapture of attention, sights invisible to us. She was the most luxurious of all my cats, and was ever to be found on the softest rug, or in the easiest chair. Though reserved, she was fond of caresses, and would return them with grace to those whom she favoured with her esteem. She devoted a great deal of time every day to her toilet, cleaning and polishing her glossy coat with her pink tongue until it shone like burnished silver. If any one rumpled the sleek fur, she would instantly and carefully lick it smooth again. To be dishevelled was beyond endurance. Perfumes delighted her, and she would thrust her little nose into bouquets, bite daintily at scented handkerchiefs, and walk with wary footsteps
