her leg into the ink-pot and upset it; then she licked her leg; then
she swore again--at me this time.

I put her down on the floor, and there Tim began rowing with her. I
do wish Tim would mind his own business. It was no concern of his
what she had been doing. Besides, he is not a saint himself. He is
only a two-year-old fox-terrier, and he interferes with everything and
gives himself the airs of a gray-headed Scotch collie.

Tittums' mother has come in and Tim has got his nose scratched, for
which I am remarkably glad. I have put them all three out in the
passage, where they are fighting at the present moment. I'm in a mess
with the ink and in a thundering bad temper; and if anything more in
the cat or dog line comes fooling about me this morning, it had better
bring its own funeral contractor with it.

Yet, in general, I like cats and dogs very much indeed. What jolly
chaps they are! They are much superior to human beings as companions.
They do not quarrel or argue with you. They never talk about
themselves but listen to you while you talk about yourself, and keep
up an appearance of being interested in the conversation. They never
make stupid remarks. They never observe to Miss Brown across a
dinner-table that they always understood she was very sweet on Mr.
Jones (who has just married Miss Robinson). They never mistake your
wife's cousin for her husband and fancy that you are the
father-in-law. And they never ask a young author with fourteen
tragedies, sixteen comedies, seven farces, and a couple of burlesques
in his desk why he doesn't write a play.

They never say unkind things. They never tell us of our faults,