perfection of specimen; the lover's eye was fed by the heart--glowed,
not with pride over breed, but with affection for cats as cats. And
Mr. Marrapit realised that for affection he was coming to substitute
pride--that he was outraging the animals he loved by neglecting the
less admirable specimens for those perfectly moulded; that even these
perfect types he was abusing by his growing craze for breeding;
polygamy in cats, he came to believe, desecrated and eventually
destroyed their finer feelings.

Therefore--and the coming of his nephew George quickened his
determination--Mr. Marrapit dispersed his stud (the word had become
abhorrent to him), keeping only four exquisite favourites, of which
the Rose of Sharon--that perfect orange cat, listed when shown at the
prohibitive figure of 1000 pounds, envy and despair of every cat-lover
in Great Britain and America--was apple of his eye, joy of his
existence.

It was the resolve to keep but these four exquisite creatures that
encompassed the arrival in Mr. Marrapit's household of Mrs. Major, now
seated beside him upon the lawn--that masterly woman. The fine cat-
house was pulled down, the attendant dismissed. A room upon the ground
floor, having a southern aspect, was set apart as bed-chamber and
exclusive apartment for the four favourites, and Mr. Marrapit sought
about for some excellent person into whose care they might be
entrusted. Their feeding, their grooming, constant attention to their
wants and the sole care of their chamber, should be this person's
duties, and it was not until a point some way distant in this history
that Mr. Marrapit ceased daily to congratulate himself upon his
selection.