Then the play went on, and an attendant presently came to the box and spoke wrathfully.
"It wasn't us, indeed it wasn't," said Anthea, earnestly; "it was the bird."
The man said well, then, they must keep their bird quiet.
"Disturbing everyone like this," he said.
"It won't do it again," said Robert, glancing imploringly at the golden bird; "I'm sure it won't."
"You have my leave to depart," said the Phœnix, gently.
"Well, he is a beauty, and no mistake," said the attendant, "only I'd cover him up during the acts. It upsets the performance."
And he went.
"Don't speak again, there's a dear," said Anthea; "you wouldn't like to interfere with your own temple, would you?"
So now the Phœnix was quiet, but it kept whispering to the children. It wanted to know why there was no altar, no fire, no incense, and became so excited and fretful and tiresome that four at least of the party of five wished deeply that it had been left at home.