"For their beauty, now. That's worth loving. Look at this one—you're a beauty all right, aren't you, my pretty? Not many girls to match you." He paused, and ran his finger down the bird's throat and breast. "Perhaps you don't think she's beautiful," he said to Helen.
"Yes, she's beautiful," said Helen, with a difficulty that sounded like reluctance.
"Ah, you don't think so. You ought to see her flying. You shall some day. When her hurt's mended she'll fly—I'll let her go."
"Perhaps she won't go," said Helen.
"Oh, yes, she will. How can she stop in a place like this? This is no air for her—she must fly in her own."
"You'll be sorry to see her go," said Helen.
"To see her free? No, not a bit. I want her to fly. Why should I keep her? I'd not let her keep me. I'd hate her for it. Why should I make her hate me?"
"Perhaps she wouldn't," said Helen, in a low voice.
"Oh, I expect she would. Ungrateful little beggar. I've saved her life, and she ought to know she belongs to me. So she might stay out of gratitude. But she'd come to hate me for it, all the same. Not at first; after a bit. Because we change. Bound to, aren't we?"
"Perhaps."