“Get married yourself then,” advised the vicar.
“Upon my word I must think seriously about it,” said Dick. “What do you say, Mrs. Fuller. Can’t you find me a nice girl?”
“Not one so nice as Marie,” said Mrs. Fuller, looking fondly at the graceful form of Miss Inderwick as her hands hovered over the tea-cups.
“No, I agree with you there, mother,” said Alan, taking up a plate of bread and butter; “Marie is a rare bird.”
“A rare bird indeed. Why not a peacock?”
Mrs. Fuller shuddered. “Oh don’t talk of peacocks!”
“Why not?” asked the vicar, “all the happiness of the present is really due to the peacock. Marie, my dear,” he observed as he took his tea, “I used to laugh at the idea of your fetish, but really things have come about so strangely that I think there is something in it.”
“Behold our benefactor,” cried Alan, pointing towards the bay-window at the end of the vast room, and there on a pedestal under a glass case was the famous bird, which had to do with so strange a history.
And even as the young man spoke, there came a burst of sunshine through the window which bathed the golden bird in radiant light. The gems flashed out into rare beauty, and in the dusky room, the fetish of the Inderwicks shone like a rare and magnificent jewel. So unexpected was the sudden glow and glory that everyone muttered a cry of admiration.
“It’s an omen!” cried Marie, “the omen of the peacock.”