calm and strange with the cat. She had a true static impressiveness, she was a social artist in some ways.

The cat refused to look at her, indifferently avoided her fingers, and began to drink again, his nose down to the cream, perfectly balanced, as he lapped with his odd little click.

‘It’s bad for him, teaching him to eat at table,’ said Birkin.

‘Yes,’ said Hermione, easily assenting.

Then, looking down at the cat, she resumed her old, mocking, humorous sing-song.

‘Ti imparano fare brutte cose, brutte cose — ’

She lifted the Mino’s white chin on her forefinger, slowly. The young cat looked round