“It’s the duck,” stammered Iris in a more subdued manner.
“Is the chimney on fire?” continued Mrs Fotheringham. “I insist on knowing what’s the matter. Miss Munnion, where are you? Why don’t you find out what’s the matter?”
“It’s something about a duck,” said Miss Munnion slowly, “but I really—don’t—quite—”
By this time Mrs Fotheringham was fully awake, and had recovered from her confusion.
“You never do, quite,” she said sharply. Then to Iris:
“Child, come here and explain why you rush into the room in this abominable manner.”
Poor Iris advanced. She wished she could say that something was on fire, or that something more important had happened than the duck sitting under the bee-hive. It seemed nothing at all now, not the least amusing, and certainly not a sufficient reason for disturbing her godmother’s nap.
“I didn’t know you were asleep,” she began.
“Keep to the point,” said Mrs Fotheringham; “what did you do it for?”
Iris told her story very lamely, and conscious of an unsympathetic audience. The very parrot ruffled up his feathers and turned his glistening eye upon his mistress when it was over, as though he shrugged his shoulders and said: