I sighed, cleared my throat and began again.  “It’s Veronica’s birthday on Wednesday, and what do you think she wants?  She wants,” I said dramatically, “a ‘frush’ from the bird-shop in the village.  The ones that hang in cages outside the door.”

“Well,” said Kathleen, “why not?”

“Why not?” I became more than serious.  “A daughter of ours has demanded for a plaything a caged bird.  Psychologically it is an important occasion.  Now or never must she learn to look upon a caged bird with horror.  What I am thinking of is the psychological effect upon the child’s character.  The psychological—­”

“You needn’t worry about Veronica’s psychology,” said Kathleen.  “Veronica’s psychology is in the right place.”

“You misunderstand the meaning of the word,” I said loftily.  “However, if you wish to wash your hands of Veronica’s training, if you refuse to cope with your own child, I must take it upon myself.”

“Do,” said Kathleen sweetly; “I’ll listen.”

* * * * *

It was Veronica’s birthday.  We were outside the bird-shop.  The thrushes in cages hung around the door.

Veronica lifted grave blue eyes to me trustingly.  “You promised me a frush, darlin’,” she said.

Veronica is small for her name and has a disarming habit of introducing terms of endearment into her conversation.

“You didn’t quite understand me,” I said gently.  “I said I’d think about it.”

“Yes, but that means promising, doesn’t it?  Finking about it means promising.  I fought you meant promising.  I fought all night you meant promising.  Darlin’.”  The last word was a sentence all by itself.

Kathleen raised her eyebrows when we came out with the bird in the cage.

“This isn’t quite the moment,” I said with dignity; “it’s best to let her get it first and realise afterwards.”

“Let’s all go to Crown Hill now,” said Veronica in a voice that admitted of no denial.

* * * * *

We were on Crown Hill.  Veronica had hugged the cage to her small bosom all the way, making little reassuring noises to its occupant.

“Now,” said Kathleen, “hadn’t you better begin?  Isn’t this the psycho—­you know what moment?”

I took a deep breath and began.

“Veronica,” I said, “listen to me for a moment.  If you were a little bird—­”

But she wasn’t listening to me.  She had held up the little wooden cage, opened the clasp of the door and, with a rapt smile on her small shining face, was watching the “frush” as he soared into the air with a sudden burst of song.

We none of us spoke till he had vanished from sight.  Then Veronica broke the silence.

“It’s all my very own plan,” she said proudly.  “I planned it all by myself.  An’ all my birfdays I’m going to have one of that nasty man’s frushes for a present, and we’ll all free come up here and let it out—­always an’ always an’ for ever an’ ever—­right up till I’m a hundred.”