'Joey, dear,' she
said, in an odd, saturnine caressive voice, 'you're bound to find me,
aren't you?' She put her face forward, and the bird rolled his neck,
almost touching her face with his beak, as if kissing her.
'He loves you,' I said.
She twisted her face up at me with a laugh.
'Yes,' she said, 'he loves me, Joey does,'--then, to the bird--'and I
love Joey, don't I. I _do_ love Joey.' And she smoothed his feathers for
a moment. Then she rose, saying: 'He's an affectionate bird.'
I smiled at the roll of her 'bir-rrd'.
'Oh, yes, he is,' she protested. 'He came with me from my home seven
years ago. Those others are his descendants--but they're not like
Joey--_are they, dee-urr?_' Her voice rose at the end with a witch-like
cry.
Then she forgot the birds in the cart-shed and turned to business again.
'Won't you read that letter?' she said. 'Read it, so that I know what it
says.'
'It's rather behind his back,' I said.
'Oh, never mind him,' she cried. 'He's been behind my back long
enough--all these four years. If he never did no worse things behind my
back than I do behind his, he wouldn't have cause to grumble. You read me
what it says.'
Now I felt a distinct reluctance to do as she bid, and yet I began--'My
dear Alfred.'
'I guessed that much,' she said. 'Eliza's dear Alfred.' She laughed. 'How
do you say it in French? _Eliza?_'
I told her, and she repeated the name with great contempt--_Elise_.
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