And then, just listen to her retort—
“But you can’t tell,” said she. “What’s the good of pretending you know. It might be a butcher and his family. You couldn’t stop them if they wanted the house.”
The agent leaned back in his chair, then leaned forward over his desk, turning over pages and pages of a ledger.
“Well, will you take an order to view this one?” said he. “Same rent—a little more accommodation.”
“No, I don’t want to see any more,” she replied. “This is the one I like best.”
“Well, would you like to settle on that?” said the agent. “I’ll write to the landlord to-night.”
“I’ll let you know to-morrow,” said she.
For three weeks she has gone on just like this.
And it is still to let, that little house in the bowl of my old apple tree. But every morning she comes just the same and, sitting on the topmost branch, she chatters to herself incessantly for half an hour, as starlings and women do—for she is a lady starling. I shall be curious to know when she makes up her mind, but, knowing nothing about women and less than nothing about starlings, I cannot say when or what it will be.