'
'I'm not,' said Anthea, 'you know I'm not.' But Cyril was gone.
It was warm under the blanket and the hearthrug, and Jane snuggled
up close to her sister; and Anthea cuddled Jane closely and kindly,
and in a sort of dream they heard the rise of a wave of mewing as
Robert opened the door of the nursery. They heard the booted
search for baskets in the back kitchen. They heard the side door
open and close, and they knew that each brother had gone out with
at least one cat. Anthea's last thought was that it would take at
least all night to get rid of one hundred and ninety-nine cats by
twos. There would be ninety-nine journeys of two cats each, and one
cat over.
'I almost think we might keep the one cat over,' said Anthea. 'I
don't seem to care for cats just now, but I daresay I shall again
some day.' And she fell asleep. Jane also was sleeping.
It was Jane who awoke with a start, to find Anthea still asleep.
As, in the act of awakening, she kicked her sister, she wondered
idly why they should have gone to bed in their boots; but the next
moment she remembered where they were.
There was a sound of muffled, shuffled feet on the stairs. Like
the heroine of the classic poem, Jane 'thought it was the boys',
and as she felt quite wide awake, and not nearly so tired as
before, she crept gently from Anthea's side and followed the
footsteps.
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