was, and mamma chose just that moment to leave the room. Rosy looked
round--there was no good going on pouting and frowning and drumming
and stamping to make mamma notice her if mamma wasn't there, and all
that sort of going on caused Rosy a good deal of trouble. So she left
off. But she wanted to quarrel with somebody. In fact, she felt that
she _must_ quarrel with somebody. She looked round again. The
only "somebody" to be seen was mamma's big, _big_ Persian cat,
whose name was "Manchon" (_why_, Rosy did not know; she thought
it a very stupid name), of whom, to tell the truth, Rosy was rather
afraid. For Manchon could look very grand and terrible when he reared
up his back, and swept about his magnificent tail; and though he had
never been known to hurt anybody, and mamma said he was the gentlest
of animals, Rosy felt sure that he could do all sorts of things to
punish his enemies if he chose. And knowing in her heart that she did
not like him, that she was indeed sometimes rather jealous of him,
Rosy always had a feeling that she must not take liberties with him,
as she could not help thinking he knew what she felt.

[Illustration: ROSY AND MANCHON]

No, Manchon would not do to quarrel with. She stood beside his cushion
looking at him, but she did not venture to pull his tail or pinch his
ears, as she would rather have liked to do. And Manchon looked up at
her sleepily, blinking his eyes as much as to say, "What a silly
little girl you are," in a way that made Rosy more angry still.

"I don't like you, you ugly old cat," she said, "and you know I don't.
And I shan't like _her_. You needn't make faces at me," as
Manchon, disturbed in his afternoon nap, blinked again and gave a sort
of discontented mew. "I don't care for your faces, and I don't care