,
protesting against the other. It seemed certain to me that talk
related to Forister, although I had no real reason for thinking it.
And I was extremely angry that the Countess of Westport and her
daughter, Lady Mary Strepp, should talk of Forister.

Upon my indignant meditations the parrot interpolated:

"Ho, ho!" it cried hoarsely. "A pretty lady! A pretty lady! A pretty
lady! A pretty lady!--"

Lady Mary smiled at this vacuous repetition, but her mother went into
a great rage, opening her old jaws like a maddened horse. "Here,
landlord! Here, waiter! Here, anybody!"

So people came running from the inn, and at their head was, truly
enough, the landlord. "My lady," he cried panting.

She pointed an angry and terrible finger at the parrot. "When I walk
in this garden, am I to be troubled with this wretched bird?"

The landlord almost bit the turf while the servants from the inn
grovelled near him. "My lady," he cried, "the bird shall be removed at
once." He ran forward. The parrot was chained by its leg to a tall
perch. As the innkeeper came away with the entire business, the parrot
began to shout: "Old harridan! Old harridan! Old harridan!" The
innkeeper seemed to me to be about to die of wild terror. It was a
dreadful moment. One could not help but feel sorry for this poor
wretch, whose sole offence was that he kept an inn and also chose to
keep a parrot in his garden.

The Countess sailed grandly toward the door of the hotel. To the
solemn protestations of six or seven servants she paid no heed. At the
door she paused and turned for the intimate remark. "I cannot endure
parrots," she said impressively. To this dictum the menials crouched.

The servants departed: the garden was now empty save for Lady Mary and
me. She continued a pensive strolling. Now, I could see plainly that
here fate had arranged for some kind of interview. The whole thing was
set like a scene in a theatre. I was undoubtedly to emerge suddenly
from the summer-house; the lovely maid would startle, blush, cast down
her eyes, turn away. Then, when it came my turn, I would doff my hat
to the earth and beg pardon for continuing a comparatively futile
existence. Then she would slyly murmur a disclaimer of any ability to
criticise my continuation of a comparatively futile existence, adding
that she was but an inexperienced girl. The ice thus being broken, we
would travel by easy stages into more intimate talk.

I looked down carefully at my