“But,” added the Minor Poet, turning to me, “you were speaking of a man named Longrush, a great talker.”

“A long talker,” I corrected.  “My cousin mentioned him third in her list of invitations.  ‘Longrush,’ she said with conviction, ’we must have Longrush.’  ‘Isn’t he rather tiresome?’ I suggested.  ’He is tiresome,’ she agreed, ’but then he’s so useful.  He never lets the conversation drop.’”

“Why is it?” asked the Minor Poet.  “Why, when we meet together, must we chatter like a mob of sparrows?  Why must every assembly to be successful sound like the parrot-house of a zoological garden?”

“I remember a parrot story,” I said, “but I forget who told it to me.”

“Maybe one of us will remember as you go on,” suggested the Philosopher.

“A man,” I said—­“an old farmer, if I remember rightly—­had read a lot of parrot stories, or had heard them at the club.  As a result he thought he would like himself to be the owner of a parrot, so journeyed to a dealer and, according to his own account, paid rather a long price for a choice specimen.  A week later he re-entered the shop, the parrot borne behind him by a boy.  ‘This bird,’ said the farmer, ‘this bird you sold me last week ain’t worth a sovereign!’ ‘What’s the matter with it?’ demanded the dealer.  ’How do I know what’s the matter with the bird?’ answered the farmer.  ’What I tell you is that it ain’t worth a sovereign—­’tain’ t worth a half a sovereign!’ ‘Why not?’ persisted the dealer; ’it talks all right, don’t it?’ ‘Talks!’ retorted the indignant farmer, ’the damn thing talks all day, but it never says anything funny!’”

“A friend of mine,” said the Philosopher, “once had a parrot—­”

“Won’t you come into the garden?” said the Woman of the World, rising and leading the way.

CHAPTER V

“Myself,” said the Minor Poet, “I read the book with the most intense enjoyment.  I found it inspiring—­so inspiring, I fear I did not give it sufficient attention.  I must read it again.”

“I understand you,” said the Philosopher.  “A book that really interests us makes us forget that we are reading.  Just as the most delightful conversation is when nobody in particular appears to be talking.”

“Do you remember meeting that Russian man George brought down here about three months ago?” asked the Woman of the World, turning to the Minor Poet.  “I forget his name.  As a matter of fact, I never knew it.  It was quite unpronounceable and, except that it ended, of course, with a double f, equally impossible to spell.  I told him frankly at the beginning I should call him by his Christian name, which fortunately was Nicholas.  He was very nice about it.”

“I remember him distinctly,” said the Minor Poet.  “A charming man.”

“He was equally charmed with you,” replied the Woman of the World.

“I can credit it easily,” murmured the Minor Poet.  “One of the most intelligent men I ever met.”