And knowing in her heart that she did
not like him, that she was indeed sometimes rather jealous of him,
Rosy always had a feeling that she must not take liberties with him,
as she could not help thinking he knew what she felt.
[Illustration: ROSY AND MANCHON]
No, Manchon would not do to quarrel with. She stood beside his cushion
looking at him, but she did not venture to pull his tail or pinch his
ears, as she would rather have liked to do. And Manchon looked up at
her sleepily, blinking his eyes as much as to say, "What a silly
little girl you are," in a way that made Rosy more angry still.
"I don't like you, you ugly old cat," she said, "and you know I don't.
And I shan't like _her_. You needn't make faces at me," as
Manchon, disturbed in his afternoon nap, blinked again and gave a sort
of discontented mew. "I don't care for your faces, and I don't care
what mamma says, and I don't care for all the peoples in the world, I
_won't_ like her;" and then, without considering that there was
no one near to see or to hear except Manchon, Rosy stamped her little
feet hard, and repeated in a louder voice, "No, I won't, I
_won't_ like her."
But some one had heard her after all. A little figure, smaller than
Rosy even, was standing in the doorway, looking at her with a troubled
face, but not seeming very surprised.
"Losy," it said, "tea's seady.
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