[Cecil rises and sits up on bank R. of her, leaning against tree.]
Cecil. Yes. Isn't he jolly? Don't you love cuckoos?
Evelyn. They are rather nice.
Cecil. Aren't they! And such clever beggars. Most birds are fools—like most people. As soon as they're grown up they go and get married, and then the rest of their lives are spent in bringing up herds of children and wondering how on earth to pay their school-bills. Your cuckoo sees the folly of all that. No school-bills for her! No nursing the baby! She just flits from hedgerow to hedgerow flirting with other cuckoos. And when she lays an egg she lays it in some one else's nest, which saves all the trouble of housekeeping. Oh, a wise bird!
Evelyn [pouting, looking away from him]. I don't know that I do like cuckoos so much after all. They sound to me rather selfish.
Cecil. Yes. But so sensible! The duck's a wise bird too in her way. [She turns to him.] But her way's different from the cuckoo's. [Matter-of-fact.] She always treads on her eggs.
Evelyn. Clumsy creature!
Cecil. Not a bit. She does it on purpose. You see, it's much less trouble than sitting on them. As soon as she's laid an egg she raises one foot absent-mindedly and gives a warning quack. Whereupon the farmer rushes up, takes it away, and puts it under some wretched hen, who has to do the sitting for her. I call that genius!
Evelyn. Genius!
Cecil. Yes. Genius is the infinite capacity for making other people take pains.