“As long as you stayed where you belonged—Excuse me—I don’t mean to be impolite—but I—I—You see—as long as you were just a voice, I could manage all right, but now that you are—er—er—you—” His speech trailed off lamentably into meaningless stutterings.
The girl turned amazed and amused eyes upon him.
“What on earth ails the poor man?” she inquired of all creation.
“I told you. I—I’m shy.”
“Not really! I thought it was a joke.”
“Qu’est-ce qu’il dit? Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?” demanded the yellow-breasted inquisitor, from his flowery perch.
“What does he say? He says he’s shy. Poor poo—er young, helpless thing!” And her laughter put to shame a palm thrush who was giving what he had up to that moment considered a highly creditable musical performance.
“All right!” he retorted warmly. “Laugh if you want to! But after stipulating that we should be strangers, to—to act this way—well, I think it’s—it’s—forward. That’s what I think it is.”
“Do you, indeed? Perhaps you think it’s pleasant for me, after I’ve opened my heart to a stranger, to have him forced on me as an acquaintance!”
From the depths of those limpid eyes welled up a little film of vexation.