‘Possibly not,’ said Gil.
‘The procession is to be tomorrow,’ his mother went on, ‘with singers and garlands and I don’t know all what. I wonder what the man himself would have made of it, whoever he is? Would he have been grateful?’
‘I think he is,’ said Gil, thinking suddenly of his dream. ‘I think he is.’
The grey cat, satisfied that Socrates was clean enough, surveyed the fire and the dog’s sprawled shaggy limbs. Selecting a spot in the crook of one long foreleg, it curled up, its back against the new draught-stop, blinked once at its mistress, and tucked a paw over its ear.
Socrates licked his nose, sighed, and went back to sleep.