window, and its strangely still green eyes no longer drawing mine
towards them, I felt my common sense returning to me.

"You have not lived with it for six months," answered Dick quietly, "and
felt its eyes for ever on you as I have. And I am not the only one. You
know Canon Whycherly, the great preacher?"

"My knowledge of modern church history is not extensive," I replied. "I
know him by name, of course. What about him?"

"He was a curate in the East End," continued Dick, "and for ten years he
laboured, poor and unknown, leading one of those noble, heroic lives that
here and there men do yet live, even in this age. Now he is the prophet
of the fashionable up-to-date Christianity of South Kensington, drives to
his pulpit behind a pair of thorough-bred Arabs, and his waistcoat is
taking to itself the curved line of prosperity. He was in here the other
morning on behalf of Princess ---. They are giving a performance of one
of my plays in aid of the Destitute Vicars' Fund."

"And did Pyramids discourage him?" I asked, with perhaps the suggestion
of a sneer.

"No," answered Dick, "so far as I could judge, it approved the scheme.
The point of the matter is that the moment Whycherly came into the room
the cat walked over to him and rubbed itself affectionately against his
legs. He stood and stroked it."

"'Oh, so it's come to you, has it?' he said, with a curious smile.

"There was no need for any further explanation between us. I understood
what lay behind those few words."

I lost sight of Dick for some time, though I heard a good deal of him,
for he was rapidly climbing into the position of the most successful
dramatist of the day, and Pyramids I had forgotten all about, until one
afternoon calling on an artist friend who had lately emerged from the
shadows of starving struggle into the sunshine of popularity, I saw a
pair of green eyes that seemed familiar to me gleaming at me from a dark
corner of the studio.

"Why, surely," I exclaimed, crossing over to examine the animal more
closely, "why, yes, you've got Dick Dunkerman's cat."

He raised his face from the easel and glanced across at me.

"Yes," he said, "we can't live on ideals," and I, remembering, hastened
to change the conversation.

Since then I have met Pyramids in the rooms of many friends of mine. They
give him different names, but I am sure it is the same cat, I know those
green eyes. He always brings them luck, but they are never qu