"I don't believe it's any use—no use at all, the rotter!" broke out that tearful voice.
"Marjorie, dear, please come."
"Very well"—with a grunt from within—"but it's no use!"
So the shepherd got his flock together. He was in a strange mood that the occasion was ceremonial, and he felt a fool. He almost counted heads as he roped in his little herd. They were all there. They filtered into the West Room, expecting little, and annoyed in their various ways; Marjorie hideous with recent tears, Aunt Amelia almost baa-a-ing, the Professor inept, McTaggart desperately out of place, the puller of horses more sullen than ever, and ah! the triumphant Victoria Mosel, cool as the woodland goddess of old songs—but smoking.
Birds of the Empire.
II.—The Parrot Attaboy, out of action.
They stood huddled in the West Room under that Sunday morning light, looking on the ravaged furniture, the staring pink circle where the now demolished glass had saved the paper from fading, the Parrot's cage—but gazing above all on the immortal Collop and awaiting his great news.
In that solemn and expectant silence—the chimes for church were ringing—the parrot sneezed three times, with a grievance, and very hoarsely muttered "Attaboy!" and shivered. It had a cold in the head.
Nor did Lord Galton wince—though that parrot had suddenly revealed to him a world of things about his cousin's conversations when his back was turned.