At the sound of his voice she began to purr.

"Oh, it's all very well," he nodded; "but it's against the law.
However," he added, "I'm rather tired of rules and regulations myself.
Besides, the world outside is very cold to-night. Purr away, old lady;
I'm going to bed."

But he did not stir.

A little later, the fire having burned low, he rose, laid a pair of
heavy logs across the coals, dragged his chair to the hearth, and
settled down in it deeply. Then he lifted the cat to his knees. Kit-Ki
sang blissfully, spreading and relaxing her claws at intervals as she
gazed at the mounting blaze.

"I'm going to bed, Kit-Ki," he repeated absently, "because that's a
pretty good place for me . . . far better than sitting up here with
you--and conscience."

But he only lay back deeper in the velvet chair and lighted another
cigar.

"Kit-Ki," he said, "the words men utter count in the reckoning; but not
as heavily as the words men leave unuttered; and what a man does scores
deeply; but--alas for the scars of the deeds he has left undone."

The logs were now wrapped in flame, and their low mellow roaring
mingled to a monotone with the droning of the cat on his knees.

Long after his cigar burnt bitter, he sat with eyes fixed on the blaze.