"Three, four, five, purl—the woman's an utter fool—always told Edward so!—seven, eight, drop one. But there's the girl to consider—twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—dirty house, no management—nineteen, twenty, knit one, turn..."
Silence fell in the darkening room.
Then from behind the sofa came the startling sound of a noisy kiss.
McTaggart wheeled round in wonder.
"Pret-ty Polly—give-us-a-kiss!" followed by a grave "A-men." The grey parrot, upside down, clinging to his narrow perch, let out a mocking laugh. Miss Uniacke knitted on.
"Seven, eight—strong soup—nine, purl—some good old port—ridiculous! a child of that age—ten, eleven, wants air—drop one—and nine hours sleep. Pity they let her out of prison—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, turn—If I had my way I'd shave their heads. Soon cure this Suffrage nonsense—Three, four——"
McTaggart felt a wild desire to laugh aloud, as from the window the parrot indulged in a hoarse and fervent "Damn!"
"Oh!" Miss Uniacke rose to her feet. "You bad bird. You shall go to bed——" She seized a green baize cloth and threw it nimbly over the cage. "I can't think where he learns these words."
At the shocked note in her voice McTaggart straightened his face.
"I expect he lived with a Suffragette before he came to you," he suggested—"and once they get the fever, you know, it's all up with their morals. He'll be out breaking windows next!"