Gladys regarded it without interest and resumed her pleasant contemplation of space.
Valerie, elbows on knees, seated at the revolving stool with all the naive absorption of a child constructing mud pies, began to make out of the fascinating green wax an image of Gladys dozing.
Time fled away in the studio; intent, absorbed, she pinched little morsels of wax from the lump and pushed them into place with a snowy, pink-tipped thumb, or with the delicate nail of her forefinger removed superfluous material.
Stepping noiselessly so not to disturb Neville she made frequent journeys around to the other side of the cat, sometimes passing sensitive fingers over silky feline contours, which, research inspired a loud purring.
As she worked sometimes she talked under her breath to herself, to Gladys, to Neville: "I am making a perfectly good cat, Valerie," she whispered.

"Gladys, aren't you a little bit flattered?
I suppose you think it's honour enough to belong to that man up there on the scaffolding.

I imagine it is; he is a very wonderful man, Gladys, very high above us in intellect as he is in body.

He doesn't pay very much attention to you and me down here on the floor; he's just satisfied to own us and be amiable to us when he thinks about us.
"I don't mean that in any critical or reproachful sense, Gladys.

Don't you dare think I do--not for one moment! Do you hear me?
Well then! If you are stupid enough to misunderstand me I'll put a perfectly horrid pair of ears on you!...