aminta had requested me to do. Between next door
neighbours in the area of Greater London there subsist relations of an
infinite delicacy. They resemble the bloom upon a peach. They combine a
sense of mutual confidence and esteem with absolute determination not to
let it get any further. Mr. Trumpington (Harriet vouched for his name)
and myself were certainly acquainted. In a sense you may even say we
were friends. If I happened to be murdered or assaulted by a footpad
there was not the smallest reason to suppose that Mr. Trumpington would
refrain from giving the police every assistance in identifying the
criminal. Similarly, if Mr. Trumpington's house caught fire, it was
certain that I should be one of the first to offer him the loan of our
garden syringe.

As things were, what happened was this. Twice or thrice a week we nodded
pleasantly to each other over the wall that divided our demesnes,
through the interstices of our respective hollyhocks; once, only once,
in a mad burst of irresponsible gaiety, Mr. Trumpington had gone so far
as to murmur, "Good aft-" to me, and I had responded effusively,
"-ernoon."

And now all this atmosphere of quiet sociableness was about to be
destroyed through the paltry misdemeanours of a subfuse cat. For I had
not the smallest doubt as to what would happen. Mr. Trumpington was a
mild amiable-looking man. There was not the faintest prospect of his
flying into a rage. He would not say, "What right have you to interfere
with the private affairs of another man's domesticated fauna?" He would
not ask me why I had inveigled his beautiful black cat on to my
poisonous premises. No, we should talk together reasonably, amicably,
and as man to man. Mr. Trumpington would promise to do all he could to
give his cat pleasant, cheerful evenings at home, and I should agree
that it was very hard to prevent a young cat from wanting to see a bit
of life. "Cats," we should say, nodding our heads wisely, "will be
cats."

And then from cats we should pass on to dogs, to sport, to politics, to
business, to heaven knows what. And the next day we should be compelled
to pick up our conversation where we had dropped it. We should discuss
our gardens and our family affairs. Things would go from bad to worse.
All our privacy and peace would disappear. We might almost as well break
down the wall that divided us at once. Possibly (thought of horror) his
wife would call on Araminta....

Still pondering ruefully,