"Not care about him! He's the noblest bird in creation—that I know, Mr. Kitely. He does not mind being bald, even, and that's the highest summit of disregard for appearances that I know of. I'm afraid I shouldn't take it so quietly."
"It don't much matter nowadays," said Mr. Kitely. "They make such wonderful wigs."
"But that's ten times worse," said Lucy.
"You don't mean to say you'd go with a bare poll, miss, so be that Providence was to serve you the same as Widdles?—which Heaven forbid!"
"I wouldn't bear a wig anyhow."
"What would you do, then, miss? Black and polish it?"
"What nonsense we are talking!" said Lucy, after a good laugh. "But I'm so happy I don't know what to do. Let's make a wig for Widdles, and grannie will think her bears' grease has made hair grow instead of feathers."
Whether this proposal was ever carried out, I do not know. But Widdles followed the furniture; and when grannie came home she found that all her things were gone. She stared. Nobody was to be seen. But all were watching from behind the defences of Mr. Kitely's book-shelves.
"Mr. Kitely," she called at last, in a voice that revealed consternation.
The bookseller obeyed the summons.