Manchurian Books

"That boy has had his legs crossed in that position and hasn't spoken
for ten minutes. Stiffer and stiffer. Brittle. He's beginning a dry
cough--always a bad sign, George.... Walk 'em about, shall I?--rub their
noses with snow?"
Happily she didn't. I got myself involved with the gentlewoman from next
door, a pensive, languid-looking little woman with a low voice, and fell
talking; our topic, Cats and Dogs, and which it was we liked best.
"I always feel," said the pensive little woman, "that there's something
about a dog--A cat hasn't got it."
"Yes," I found myself admitting with great enthusiasm, "there is
something. And yet again--"
"Oh! I know there's something about a cat, too. But it isn't the same."
"Not quite the same," I admitted; "but still it's something."
"Ah! But such a different something!"
"More sinuous."
"Much more."
"Ever so much more."
"It makes all the difference, don't you think?"
"Yes," I said, "ALL."
She glanced at me gravely and sighed a long, deeply felt "Yes." A long
pause.
The thing seemed to me to amount to a stale-mate.


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