“Listen,” I said at last.  “I don’t believe in you.  There is a mystery here.  You pretend you know me and yet you act as if you were afraid of me—­just like a common bird who is made of nothing but feathers.  I don’t believe you are Tweetie at all.  You are an Impostor!”

Believable or not, just at that moment when I stood there under the bough arguing, reproaching and beguiling by turns and puzzled beyond measure—­out of the Nowhere darted a little scarlet flame of frenzy—­ Tweetie himself—­with his feathers ruffled and on fire with fury.  The robin on the branch actually was an Impostor and Tweetie had discovered him red-breasted if not red-handed with crime.  Oh! the sight it was to behold him in his tiny Berseker rage at his impudent rival.  He flew at him, he beat him, he smacked him, he pecked him, he shrieked bad language at him, he drove him from the branch—­from the tree, from one tree after another as the little traitor tried to take refuge—­he drove him from the rose-garden—­over the laurel hedge and into the pheasant cover in the wood.  Perhaps he killed him and left him slain in the bracken.  I could not see.  But having beaten him once and forever he came back to me, panting—­all fluffed up—­and with blood thirst only just dying in his eye.  He came down on to my table—­out of breath as he agitatedly rearranged his untidy feathers—­and indignant—­almost unreconcilable because I had been such an undiscriminating and feeble-minded imbecile as to be for one moment deceived.

His righteous wrath was awful to behold.  I was so frightened that I felt quite pale.  With those wiles of the serpent which every noble woman finds herself forced to employ at times I endeavored to pacify him.

“Of course I did not really believe he was You,” I said tremulously.  “He was your inferior in every respect.  His waistcoat was not nearly so beautiful as yours.  His eyes were not so soul compelling.  His legs were not nearly so elegant and slender.  And there was an expression about his beak which I distrusted from the first.  You heard me tell him he was an Impostor.”

He began to listen—­he became calmer—­he relented.  He kindly ate a crumb out of my hand.

We began mutually to understand the infamy of the situation.  The Impostor had been secretly watching us.  He had envied us our happiness.  Into his degenerate mind had stolen the darkling and criminal thought that he—­Audacious Scoundrel—­might impose upon me by pretending he was not merely “a robin” but “The Robin”—­Tweetie himself and that he might supplant him in my affections.  But he had been confounded and cast into outer darkness and again we were One.

I will not attempt to deceive.  He was jealous beyond bounds.  It was necessary for me to be most discreet in my demeanor towards the head gardener with whom I was obliged to consult frequently.  When he came into the rose-garden for orders Tweetie at once appeared.