ooing as of innumerable herds, waiting slaughter. Beyond lie
the silent aquariums and the crates of fresh mice. (They raise mice
instead of hens in the country, in Super-cat Land.) To the west is a
beautiful but weirdly bacchanalian park, with long groves of catnip,
where young super-cats have their fling, and where a few crazed catnip
addicts live on till they die, unable to break off their strangely
undignified orgies. And here where you stand is the sumptuous residence
district. Houses with spacious grounds everywhere: no densely-packed
buildings. The streets have been swept up--or lapped up--until they are
spotless. Not a scrap of paper is lying around anywhere: no rubbish, no
dust. Few of the pavements are left bare, as ours are, and those few
are polished: the rest have deep soft velvet carpets. No footfalls are
heard.

[Illustration: Punctilious, haughty, inflammable]

There are no lights in these streets, though these people are abroad
much at night. All you see are stars overhead and the glowing eyes of
cat ladies, of lithe silken ladies who pass you, or of stiff-whiskered
men. Beware of those men and the gleam of their split-pupiled stare.
They are haughty, punctilious, inflammable: self-absorbed too, however.
They will probably not even notice you; but if they do, you are lost.
They take offense in a flash, abhor strangers, despise hospitality, and
would think nothing of killing you or me on their way home to dinner.

Follow one of them. Enter this house. Ah what splendor! No servants,
though a few abject monkeys wait at the back-doors, and submissively
run little errands. But of course they are never let inside: they would
seem out of place. Gorgeous couches, rich colors, silken walls, an
oriental magnificence. In here is the ballroom. But wait: what is this
in the corner? A large triumphal statue--of a cat overcoming a dog. And
look at this dining-room, its exquisite appointments, its daintiness:
faucets for hot and cold milk in the pantry, and a gold bowl of cream.

Some one is entering. Hush! If I could but describe her! Languorous,
slender and passionate. Sleepy eyes that see everything. An indolent
purposeful step. An unimaginable grace. If you were _her_ lover, my
boy, you would learn how fierce love can be, how capricious and sudden,
how hostile, how ecstatic, how violent!

* * * * *

Think what the state of the arts would have been in such cities.

They