“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.
“I should like to hear some 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.”