"Miss Hobson took it after the rehearsal yesterday," drawled Gladys
Winch, addressing the world in general, "and threw it negligently at the
theatre cat."

Miss Hobson seemed taken aback. Her composure was not restored by Mr.
Bunbury's next remark. The producer, like his company, had been feeling
the strain of the past few days, and, though as a rule he avoided
anything in the nature of a clash with the temperamental star, this
matter of the missing paper-knife had bitten so deeply into his soul
that he felt compelled to speak his mind.

"In future, Miss Hobson, I should be glad if, when you wish to throw
anything at the cat, you would not select a missile from the property
box. Good heavens!" he cried, stung by the way fate was maltreating him,
"I have never experienced anything like this before. I have been
producing plays all my life, and this is the first time this has
happened. I have produced Nazimova. Nazimova never threw paper-knives at
cats."

"Well, I hate cats," said Miss Hobson, as though that settled it.

"I," murmured Miss Winch, "love little pussy, her fur is so warm, and if
I don't hurt her she'll do me no..."

"Oh, my heavens!" shouted Gerald Foster, bounding from his seat and for
the first time taking a share in the debate. "Are we going to spend the
whole day arguing about cats and paper-knives? For goodness' sake, clear
the stage and stop wasting time."

Miss Hobson chose to regard this intervention as an affront.