have done credit to a porch-climber, for the sting of my blunder at the
table was quiescent, or at least neutralized, under the itch of a
curiosity far from satisfied concerning the interesting premises next
door. The gentleman in the dressing-gown, I was sure, could have been no
other than the Honorable David Beasley himself. He came not in eyeshot
now, neither he nor any other; there was no sign of life about the
place. That portion of his yard which lay behind the house was not
within my vision, it is true, his property being here separated from
Mrs. Apperthwaite's by a board fence higher than a tall man could reach;
but there was no sound from the other side of this partition, save that
caused by the quiet movement of rusty leaves in the breeze.

My cigar was at half-length when the green lattice door of Mrs.
Apperthwaite's back porch was opened and Miss Apperthwaite, bearing a
saucer of milk, issued therefrom, followed, hastily, by a very white,
fat cat, with a pink ribbon round its neck, a vibrant nose, and fixed,
voracious eyes uplifted to the saucer. The lady and her cat offered to
view a group as pretty as a popular painting; it was even improved when,
stooping, Miss Apperthwaite set the saucer upon the ground, and,
continuing in that posture, stroked the cat. To bend so far is a test of
a woman's grace, I have observed.

She turned her face toward me and smiled. "I'm almost at the age, you
see."

"What age?" I asked, stupidly enough.

"When we take to cats," she said, rising. "Spinsterhood" we like to call
it. 'Single-blessedness!'"