"Cats," remarked Jephson to me, one afternoon, as we sat in the punt discussing the plot of our novel, "cats are animals for whom I entertain a very great respect.

Cats and Nonconformists seem to me the only things in this world possessed of a practicable working conscience.

Watch a cat doing something mean and wrong--if ever one gives you the chance; notice how anxious she is that nobody should see her doing it; and how prompt, if detected, to pretend that she was not doing it--that she was not even thinking of doing it--that, as a matter of fact, she was just about to do something else, quite different.

You might almost think they had a soul.
"Only this morning I was watching that tortoise-shell of yours on the houseboat.

She was creeping along the roof, behind the flower-boxes, stalking a young thrush that had perched upon a coil of rope.