“No, he never sulked. He was a charming, good-mannered bird, accustomed to the best society, whereas you, I suppose, are nothing but a heartless vagabond like myself.”
“I daresay you are, but I suppose nobody had the insolence to tell you that to your face.”
“Well, very nearly. It was what it amounted to. I am not stupid. There is no need to spell out simple words for me. It just came out. Don Juan struggled desperately to keep the truth in. It was most pathetic. And yet he couldn’t help himself. He talked very much like a parrot.”
“Of the best society,” I suggested.
“Yes, the most honourable of parrots. I don’t like parrot-talk. It sounds so uncanny. Had I lived in the Middle Ages I am certain I would have believed that a talking bird must be possessed by the devil. I am sure Therese would believe that now. My own sister! She would cross herself many times and simply quake with terror.”
“But you were not terrified,” I said. “May I ask when that interesting communication took place?”
“Yesterday, just before you blundered in here of all days in the year. I was sorry for him.”
“Why tell me this? I couldn’t help noticing it. I regretted I hadn’t my umbrella with me.”
“Those unforgiven tears! Oh, you simple soul! Don’t you know that people never cry for anybody but themselves? . . . Amigo George, tell me—what are we doing in this world?”
“Do you mean all the people, everybody?”