shelf lay Christopher's big cat, Columbus. He was black as the ace of spades and as plump as a feather pillow. His head hung over the edge of the shelf, and his eyes were green slits as he surveyed the dogs. His faint mew was a challenge to them and showed his pink tongue. Except for a wave of the tail and a cock of the ear, the dogs paid no attention to him. They had barked at him as puppies, and he had scratched their noses for them. Their silence under his scrutiny was therefore discreet.
"He's a beauty," Hildegarde said, and stood up to rub the old cat's head.
He settled himself against the warmth of her shoulder, his paws hanging down, his sable blackness showing up the whiteness of her skin.
"The dogs are jealous," Meriweather said, "and so am I."
The dogs were, indeed, on their feet, stiff as ramrods, their muzzles upturned.
A light flickered in Meriweather's golden eyes. "They feel about Columbus as I do about Harlowe."
They laughed together. The whole thing was light-hearted. Hildegarde had a sudden sense of relief from tension. Oh, things couldn't be so bad if she could feel like this!
Christopher, coming in, set in the center of the table some white-starred flowers in a blue bowl. And presently he brought the oysters in their deep shells on blue platters—and outside was the blue of the Bay.
Hildegarde ate with an appetite. It was delightful to be here with Merry in this wide, bright room and to have him talk to her.
