It had a calm, contented air about it.
Montmorency went for that poor cat at the rate of twenty miles an hour; but the cat did not hurry up--did not seem to have grasped the idea that its life was in danger.

It trotted quietly on until its would-be assassin was within a yard of it, and then it turned round and sat down in the middle of the road, and looked at Montmorency with a gentle, inquiring expression, that said: "Yes! You want me ?" Montmorency does not lack pluck; but there was something about the look of that cat that might have chilled the heart of the boldest dog.

He stopped abruptly, and looked back at Tom.
Neither spoke; but the conversation that one could imagine was clearly as follows:-- THE CAT: "Can I do anything for you ?" MONTMORENCY: "No--no, thanks." THE CAT: "Don't you mind speaking, if you really want anything, you know." MONTMORENCY (_backing down the High Street_): "Oh, no--not at all--certainly--don't you trouble.

I--I am afraid I've made a mistake.
I thought I knew you.

Sorry I disturbed you." THE CAT: "Not at all--quite a pleasure.