There was an appalling silence.
"I don't seem to hear it," I said at last.
"But I haven't heard it here yet," Miss Middleton protested. "It was in Hampshire. The cuckoos here are always a bit late. You see, our garden takes a little finding. It isn't so well known in—in Africa, or wherever they come from—as Hampshire."
"Yes, but when I've come down specially to hear it—"
"CUCK-OO," said Miss Middleton suddenly, and looked very innocent.
"There, that was the nightingale, but it's the cuckoo I really want to hear."
"I AM sorry about it. If you like, I'll listen to you while you tell me who you think ought to play for England. I can't make it more summery for you than that. Unless roses are any good?"
"No, don't bother," I said in some disappointment; "you've done your best. We can't all have cuckoos any more than we can all have lobretias. I must come again in August, when one of the pioneers may have struggled here. Of course in Hampshire—"
"CUCK-OO," said somebody from the apple tree.
"There!" cried Miss Middleton.