In the sacred precincts of the Penniman parlour Wilbur Cowan raised the wineglass to his lips and tasted doubtingly.  After a second considering sip he announced—­“They can’t arrest you for that.”

Winona looked a little relieved, but more than a little disappointed.

“I thought it had a kick,” she mourned.

“Here’s to you and him, anyway!  Didn’t I always tell you he was one good little man?”

“He’s all of that,” said Winona, and tossed off her own glass of what she sincerely hoped was not a permitted beverage.

“You’ve come on,” said Wilbur.

“I haven’t started,” said Winona.

* * * * *

Later that afternoon Winona sat in her own room in close consultation with Juliana Whipple.  Miss Whipple, driving her own car as no other Whipple could have driven it, had hastened to felicitate the bride.  Tall, gaunt, a little stooped now, her weathered face aglow, she had ascended the steps to greet the couple.  Spike’s tenancy of the chair had been made doubly secure by Winona on the step at his feet.

Juliana embraced Winona and took one of Spike’s knotted hands to press warmly between both her own.  Then Winona had dragged her to privacy, and their talk had now come to a point.

“It’s that—­that parrot!” exploded Winona, desperately.  “I never used to notice, but you know—­that senseless gabble, ‘pretty girl, pretty girl,’ and then the thing laughs like a fiend.  It would be all right if he wouldn’t laugh.  You might think he meant it.  And poor Spike is so sensitive; he gets things you wouldn’t think he’d get.  That awful bird might set him to thinking.  Now he believes I’m pretty.  In spite of everything I’ve said to him, he believes it.  Well, I’m not going to have that bird putting any other notion into his mind, not if I have to—­”

She broke off, but murder was in her tone.

“I see,” said Miss Whipple.  “You’re right, of course—­only you are pretty, Winona.  I never used to think—­think about it, I mean, but you’ve changed.  You needn’t be afraid of any parrot.”

Winona patted the hand of Miss Whipple, an able hand suggesting that of Spike in its texture and solidity.

“That’s ever so nice of you, but I know all about myself.  Spike’s eyes are gone, but that bird is going, too.”

“Why not let me take the poor old thing?” said Juliana.  “It can say ‘pretty girl’ to me and laugh its head off if it wants.”  She hung a moment on this, searching Winona’s face with clear eyes.  “I have no blind husband,” she finished.

“You’re a dear,” said Winona.

“I’m so glad for you,” said Juliana.