Mrs. Goyte came darting past the end of the house, her head sticking
forward in sharp scrutiny. She saw me, and came forward.
'Have you got Joey?' she cried sharply, as if I were a thief.
I opened the bag, and he flopped out, flapping as if he hated the touch
of the snow now. She gathered him up, and put her lips to his beak. She
was flushed and handsome, her eyes bright, her hair slack, thick, but
more witch-like than ever. She did not speak.
She had been followed by a grey-haired woman with a round, rather sallow
face and a slightly hostile bearing.
'Did you bring him with you, then?' she asked sharply. I answered that I
had rescued him the previous evening.
From the background slowly approached a slender man with a grey moustache
and large patches on his trousers.
'You've got'im back 'gain, ah see,' he said to his daughter-in-law. His
wife explained how I had found Joey.
'Ah,' went on the grey man. 'It wor our Alfred scared him off, back your
life. He must'a flyed ower t'valley. Tha ma' thank thy stars as 'e wor
fun, Maggie. 'E'd a bin froze. They a bit nesh, you know,' he concluded
to me.
'They are,' I answered. 'This isn't their country.'
'No, it isna,' replied Mr. Goyte. He spoke very slowly and deliberately,
quietly, as if the soft pedal were always down in his voice. He looked at
his daughter-in-law as she crouched, flushed and dark, before the
peacock, which would lay its long blue neck for a moment along her lap.
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