"But that's just the person you'd expect to talk a lot about the weather. I believe you've been had. Write a little note to the poulterers and ask if you can change it. You've got a bad one by mistake."
"We got it as a bird," said Mrs. Atherley with dignity, "not as a gramophone."
The next morning Evangeline was as silent as ever. Miss Atherley and I surveyed it after breakfast. It was still grappling with a monkey-nut, but no doubt a different one.
"Isn't it ever going to talk?" I asked. "Really, I thought parrots were continually chatting."
"Yes, but they have to be taught—just like you teach a baby."
"Are you sure? I quite see that you have to teach them any special things you want them to say, but I thought they were all born with a few simple obvious remarks, like 'Poor Polly,' or—or 'Dash Lloyd George.'"
"I don't think so," said Miss Atherley. "Not the green ones."
At dinner that evening, Mr. Atherley being now with us, the question of Evangeline's education was seriously considered.
"The only proper method," began Mr. Atherley——"By the way," he said, turning to me, "you don't know anything about parrots, do you?"
"No," I said. "You can go on quite safely."