“You see it mightn’t have told the truth, Jem,” continued Mrs. Gannett. “It might have told all sorts of lies about me, and made no end of mischief.”
“It couldn’t lie,” shouted the engineer passionately, rising from his chair and pacing the room. “It’s your guilty conscience that’s made a coward of you. How dare you sell my parrot?”
“Because it wasn’t truthful, Jem,” said his wife, who was somewhat pale.
“If you were half as truthful you’d do,” vociferated the engineer, standing over her. “You, you deceitful woman.”
Mrs. Gannett fumbled in her pocket again, and producing a small handkerchief applied it deliberately to her eyes.
“I—I got rid of it for your sake,” she stammered. “It used to tell such lies about you. I couldn’t bear to listen to it.”
“About me!” said Mr. Gannett, sinking into his seat and staring at his wife with very natural amazement. “Tell lies about me! Nonsense! How could it?”
“I suppose it could tell me about you as easily as it could tell you about me?” said Mrs. Gannett. “There was more magic in that bird than you thought, Jem. It used to say shocking things about you. I couldn’t bear it.”
“Do you think you’re talking to a child or a fool?” demanded the engineer.
Mrs. Gannett shook her head feebly. She still kept the handkerchief to her eyes, but allowed a portion to drop over her mouth.