[Sits at a distance.
Mrs. S. Probably.
But walking somehow never makes me warm.
[An awkward pause, during which Mr. Muffle puts his fingers between the bars of a parrot's cage, as if playing with the bird, receives a savage snap, but says nothing, as the affair is not remarked by any body.]
Mrs. Y. What think you, Mister Muffle, will it rain?
You gentlemen can always judge so well.
Mr. M. (Walking to the window, partly to conceal the pain of his finger.) Why, that depends a good deal on the wind.
Mrs. S. They say that when the smoke is beaten down,
Rain may be looked for.
Mrs. M. I have often heard
That if the birds fly very near the ground,
Wet is in store. Look at that sparrow now,
He's fairly on the ground, so it must rain.
Mrs. Y. But now he's off again, and so it won't,
Those adages, I think, are often wrong.
Mr. M. One rule I've always found infallible.
Mrs. S. Pray tell us what it is.