“In England,” answered her brother; “from every bush and hedgerow.”
“G-r-r-r-h!” Lucilla ejaculated, deep in her throat, turning upon him a face that was meant to convey at once a sense of outrage and a thirst for vengeance, and showing her pretty teeth. “Humbug is such a cheap substitute for wit. Why don't other birds sing? Why don't blackbirds, thrushes?”
“Because,” Pontycroft obligingly explained, “birds are chock-full of feminine human nature. They're the artists of the air, and—you know the proverb—every artist is at heart a woman. June when they woo, December when they wed, they sing—just as women undulate their hair—to beguile the fancy of the male upon whom they have designs. But once he's safely married and made sure of, the feminine spirit of economy asserts itself, and they sing no longer. A quoi bon? They save their breath to cool their pottage.”
“What perfect nonsense,” said Lucilla, curling a scornful lip. “It's a well-known fact that only the male birds sing.”
“Apropos of male and female,” Ponty asked, “has it never occurred to you that some one ought to invent a third sex?”
“A third?” expostulated Ruth, wide-eyed. “Good heavens! Aren't there already two too many?”
“One is too many, if you like,” Ponty distinguished, uncoiling his legs and getting upon his feet, “but two are not enough. There should be a third, for men to choose their sisters from. You women have always been too good for us, and nowadays, with your higher education, you're becoming far too clever. See how Lucilla caught me out on a point in natural history.”
With which he retreated into the house.
II
But a week or so later, Bertram having found an almost daily occasion for coming to Villa Santa Cecilia, “It really does begin to look,” Ponty said, in a tone that sounded tentatively exultant, “as if at last we were more or less by way of getting her off our hands. Unberufen,” he made haste to add, zealously tapping the arm of his wicker chair.