“Absolutely nothing whatever,” replied the Mole, with perfect truthfulness. “Well, now,” he went on, “you seem to have found another piece of domestic litter, done for and thrown away, and I suppose you’re perfectly happy. Better go ahead and dance your jig round that if you’ve got to, and get it over, and then perhaps we can go on and not waste any more time over rubbish-heaps. Can we eat a doormat? Or sleep under a doormat? Or sit on a doormat and sledge home over the snow on it, you exasperating rodent?”

“Do⁠—you⁠—mean⁠—to⁠—say,” cried the excited Rat, “that this doormat doesn’t tell you anything?”

“Really, Rat,” said the Mole, quite pettishly, “I think we’ve had enough of this folly. Who ever heard of a doormat telling anyone anything? They simply don’t do it. They are not that sort at all. Doormats know their place.”