“I should like to hear one of the stories it told about me, if you can remember them,” said the engineer with bitter sarcasm.
“The first lie,” said Mrs. Gannett in a feeble but ready voice, “was about the time you were at Genoa. The parrot said you were at some concert gardens at the upper end of the town.”
One moist eye coming mildly from behind the handkerchief saw the engineer stiffen suddenly in his chair.
“I don’t suppose there even is such a place,” she continued.
“I—b’leve—there—is,” said her husband jerkily. “I’ve heard—our chaps—talk of it.”
“But you haven’t been there?” said his wife anxiously.
“Never!” said the engineer with extraordinary vehemence.
“That wicked bird said that you got intoxicated there,” said Mrs. Gannett in solemn accents, “that you smashed a little marble-topped table and knocked down two waiters, and that if it hadn’t been for the captain of the Pursuit, who was in there and who got you away, you’d have been locked up. Wasn’t it a wicked bird?”
“Horrible!” said the engineer huskily.
“I don’t suppose there ever was a ship called the Pursuit,” continued Mrs. Gannett.