“Amigo George,” she said, “I take the trouble to send for you and here I am before you, talking to you and you say nothing.”

“What am I to say?”

“How can I tell?  You might say a thousand things.  You might, for instance, tell me that you were sorry for my tears.”

“I might also tell you a thousand lies.  What do I know about your tears?  I am not a susceptible idiot.  It all depends upon the cause.  There are tears of quiet happiness.  Peeling onions also will bring tears.”

“Oh, you are not susceptible,” she flew out at me.  “But you are an idiot all the same.”

“Is it to tell me this that you have written to me to come?” I asked with a certain animation.

“Yes.  And if you had as much sense as the talking parrot I owned once you would have read between the lines that all I wanted you here for was to tell you what I think of you.”

“Well, tell me what you think of me.”

“I would in a moment if I could be half as impertinent as you are.”

“What unexpected modesty,” I said.

“These, I suppose, are your sea manners.”

“I wouldn’t put up with half that nonsense from anybody at sea.  Don’t you remember you told me yourself to go away?  What was I to do?”

“How stupid you are.  I don’t mean that you pretend.  You really are.  Do you understand what I say?  I will spell it for you.  S-t-u-p-i-d.  Ah, now I feel better.  Oh, amigo George, my dear fellow-conspirator for the king—­the king.  Such a king!  Vive le Roi!  Come, why don’t you shout Vive le Roi, too?”

“I am not your parrot,” I said.

“No, he never sulked.  He was a charming, good-mannered bird, accustomed to the best society, whereas you, I suppose, are nothing but a heartless vagabond like myself.”

“I daresay you are, but I suppose nobody had the insolence to tell you that to your face.”

“Well, very nearly.  It was what it amounted to.  I am not stupid.  There is no need to spell out simple words for me.  It just came out.  Don Juan struggled desperately to keep the truth in.  It was most pathetic.  And yet he couldn’t help himself.  He talked very much like a parrot.”

“Of the best society,” I suggested.

“Yes, the most honourable of parrots.  I don’t like parrot-talk.  It sounds so uncanny.  Had I lived in the Middle Ages I am certain I would have believed that a talking bird must be possessed by the devil.  I am sure Therese would believe that now.  My own sister!  She would cross herself many times and simply quake with terror.”

“But you were not terrified,” I said.  “May I ask when that interesting communication took place?”

“Yesterday, just before you blundered in here of all days in the year.  I was sorry for him.”

“Why tell me this?  I couldn’t help noticing it.  I regretted I hadn’t my umbrella with me.”