With the paper on his desk and with the words on his mind, he was yet in such a strange state of indecision that he hesitated to write the letter! His morbidly-sensitive nerves were sadly shaken.

Even the familiar record of the half-hour by the hall clock startled him.

The stroke of the bell was succeeded by a mild and mournful sound outside the door--the mewing of a cat.
He rose, without any appearance of surprise, and opened the door.
With grace and dignity entered a small black female cat; exhibiting, by way of variety of colour, a melancholy triangular patch of white over the lower part of her face, and four brilliantly clean white paws.

Ovid went back to his desk.

As soon as he was in his chair again, the cat jumped on his shoulder, and sat there purring in his ear.