Angora cat. But from the first meeting of our eyes, I knew that I
would someday bring Joanna to my father's estate to present her as my
fiancee.

I approached that occasion with understandable trepidation. My father
had been explicit in his advice before I departed for America, but on no
point had he been more emphatic than secrecy concerning himself. He
assured me that revelation of my paternity would bring ridicule and
unhappiness upon me. The advice was sound, of course, and not even
Joanna knew that our journey's end would bring us to the estate of a
large, cultured, and conversing cat. I had deliberately fostered the
impression that I was orphaned, believing that the proper place for
revealing the truth was the atmosphere of my father's home in France. I
was certain that Joanna would accept her father-in-law without distress.
Indeed, hadn't nearly a score of human servants remained devoted to
their feline master for almost a generation?

We had agreed to be wed on the first of June, and on May the fourth,
emplaned in New York for Paris. We were met at Orly Field by Francois,
my father's solemn manservant, who had been delegated not so much as
escort as he was chaperone, my father having retained much of the old
world proprieties. It was a long trip by automobile to our estate in
Brittany, and I must admit to a brooding silence throughout the drive
which frankly puzzled Joanna.

However, when the great stone fortress that was our home came within
view, my fears and doubts were quickly dispelled. Joanna, like so many
Americans, was thrilled at the aura of venerability and royal custom
surrounding the estate. Francois placed her in charge of Madame Jolinet,
who clapped her plump old hands with delight at the sight of her fresh
blonde beauty, and chattered and clucked like a mother hen as she led
Joanna to her room on the second floor. As for myself, I had one
immediate wish: to see my father, the cat.

He greeted me in the library, where he had been anxiously awaiting our
arrival, curled up in his favorite chair by the fireside, a wide-mouthed
goblet of cognac by his side. As I entered the room, he lifted a paw
formally, but then his reserve was dissolved by the emotion of our
reunion, and he licked my face in unashamed joy.

Francois refreshed his glass, and poured another for me, and we toasted
each other's well-being.

"To you, _mon purr_," I said, using the affectionate name of my
childhood memory.

"To