“Ah, Dick!” said Brettison, rubbing his finger along the sides of the canary’s cage. “Well, Jack!”
The yellow bird burst into song, and the speckled starling uttered a sharp, jarring sound, and set up all its sharp-pointed, prickly looking plumes till it resembled a feathered porcupine.
“Not such an uncomfortable place for a man to live in, eh?” said Brettison cheerily. “Better than our dull, dusty chambers, eh?”
Stratton’s eyes were wandering about, noting a clay tobacco pipe on the hob, a jar on the table, and an easy-chair and spittoon by the fireplace, while flowers were in a vase on the table, and a couple of solemn looking, swollen-eyed, pompous goldfish sailed round and round their little crystal globe, as if it were their world, and nothing outside were of the least consequence, unless it might have been the fat cat, with fish-hook claws, half asleep where the sun made a patch on the stone outside the French window.
“Like this place better than the old street, eh, Mary?” said Brettison.
“Oh, indeed yes, sir! It’s quite like being in the country, and yet with all the advantages of town.”
“As the house agent said in his advertisement, eh? Well, where is Mr Cousin?”
“Only gone to get his morning shave, sir. He’ll be back soon.”
“Humph! Pretty well?”
“Oh, yes, sir; he’s nicely, thank you. Really, sir, I don’t think he wants the chair at all. It’s only because he likes it and has grown used to it.”