“Oh, you are not susceptible,” she flew out at me. “But you are an idiot all the same.”
“Is it to tell me this that you have written to me to come?” I asked with a certain animation.
“Yes. And if you had as much sense as the talking parrot I owned once you would have read between the lines that all I wanted you here for was to tell you what I think of you.”
“Well, tell me what you think of me.”
“I would in a moment if I could be half as impertinent as you are.”
“What unexpected modesty,” I said.
“These, I suppose, are your sea manners.”
“I wouldn’t put up with half that nonsense from anybody at sea. Don’t you remember you told me yourself to go away? What was I to do?”
“How stupid you are. I don’t mean that you pretend. You really are. Do you understand what I say? I will spell it for you. S-t-u-p-i-d. Ah, now I feel better. Oh, amigo George, my dear fellow-conspirator for the king—the king. Such a king! Vive le Roi! Come, why don’t you shout Vive le Roi, too?”
“I am not your parrot,” I said.