She twisted her face up at me with a laugh.
“Yes,” she said, “he loves me, Joey does”—then, to the bird—“and I love Joey, don't I? I do love Joey.” And she smoothed his feathers for a moment. Then she rose, saying: “He's an affectionate bird.”
I smiled at the roll of her “bir-rrd.”
“Oh yes, he is,” she protested. “He came with me from my home seven years ago. Those others are his descendants—but they're not like Joey— are they, dee-urr? ” Her voice rose at the end with a witch-like cry.
Then she forgot the birds in the cart-shed, and turned to business again.
“Won't you read that letter?” she said. “Read it, so that I know what it says.”
“It's rather behind his back,” I said.
“Oh, never mind him,” she cried, “He's been behind my back long enough. If he never did no worse things behind my back than I do behind his, he wouldn't have cause to grumble. You read me what it says.”
Now I felt a distinct reluctance to do as she bid, and yet I began—“'My dear Alfred.'”
“I guessed that much,” she said. “Eliza's dear Alfred.” She laughed. “How do you say it in French? Eliza? ”