Weldon drew his chair across the broad verandah in an aimless, leisurely way, anchored it in the shadow of a wicker table laden with cool glass pitchers and iced fruits, and sank into it, sighing restlessly. The pillars of coral that supported the verandah roof framed, each pair of them, an oblong of sapphire bay; vivid masses of pink oleanders hedged the foreground; the tremulous sapphire crawled softly over a creamy crescent beach. In the pleasant noon stillness the mild whine of a patient puppy, broken by the chuckles of some young human thing, rose on the air. Jars of sweet flowers sent out their almost tropical odours with each tiny, invisible wind current: they seemed to puff it into his face.
A great green and flame-coloured parrot, hung head downward in his yellow cage, began suddenly a mechanical, dry litany:
"Mañaña! mañaña! mañaña!" It was like a clock—passionless, regular, meditative. Weldon shrugged his shoulders distastefully; he had never been able to conquer his dislike of steady, measured sounds. It was an unreasonable weakness, but incurable. He twisted uneasily in his white flannels as the bird droned on,
"Mañaña! mañaña! mañaña!"
"Be still, Chico, be still, sir!"
A fair, finely grown boy took the coral steps two at a bound and threatened the parrot.
"Daddy, keep him quiet, won't you? He frightens my white mice awfully. Why do mice hate parrots? Do you know, daddy?"
Weldon's face cleared and he threw his arm over the slender shoulders.
"I don't know, Pippo, I can't guess," he said. "Where's your mother?"