He turned sharply, holding up his finger. Absurd, of course, but he had thought, for a moment, that he heard at his ear the quick ruffling of feathers, the pretty, questioning twitter, that had always been the prelude to full-throated, indignant song.... The cage——
The cage of course was empty.
Some bird outside.... He had left the window open.... He tried, in a childish pet against the birds who had tricked his ear, to push down the sash again, but it was stiff and heavy—suddenly too stiff and heavy for Gran’papa.
He called peevishly——
“Laura!”
But she was adjusting the fire-irons and did not hear.
He left it open and turned back again into the room. He was fumbling with his fiddle-case when Laura straightened herself, and with a smile and a show of blackened fingers, slipped out of the room.
“Come back,” muttered Gran’papa.
She meant to come back when she had washed her hands; but Aunt Adela waylaid her, discovered her using the basin in her room—inconsiderate—making fresh work—when there was the bathroom! Laura, undeniably in the wrong, had, by all unwritten rules, necessarily to pay forfeit to Aunt Adela, to attend without protest to a criticism of her untidy room, to hang up skirts under Aunt Adela’s eye, to dust a mantelpiece and re-adjust ornaments to the high-pitched ripple of Aunt Adela’s voice, and to respond cheerfully in the infrequent pauses.
“Yes, Auntie. Oh, of course. Yes—I think you’re right.”