“But,” added the Minor Poet, turning to
me, “you were speaking of a man named Longrush,
a great talker.”
“A long talker,” I corrected. “My
cousin mentioned him third in her list of invitations.
‘Longrush,’ she said with conviction,
’we must have Longrush.’ ‘Isn’t
he rather tiresome?’ I suggested. ’He
is tiresome,’ she agreed, ’but then he’s
so useful. He never lets the conversation drop.’”
“Why is it?” asked the Minor Poet.
“Why, when we meet together, must we chatter
like a mob of sparrows? Why must every assembly
to be successful sound like the parrot-house of a
zoological garden?”
“I remember a parrot story,” I said, “but
I forget who told it to me.”
“Maybe one of us will remember as you go on,”
suggested the Philosopher.
“A man,” I said—“an old
farmer, if I remember rightly—had read a
lot of parrot stories, or had heard them at the club.
As a result he thought he would like himself to be
the owner of a parrot, so journeyed to a dealer and,
according to his own account, paid rather a long price
for a choice specimen. A week later he re-entered
the shop, the parrot borne behind him by a boy.
‘This bird,’ said the farmer, ‘this
bird you sold me last week ain’t worth a sovereign!’
‘What’s the matter with it?’ demanded
the dealer. ’How do I know what’s
the matter with the bird?’ answered the farmer.
’What I tell you is that it ain’t worth
a sovereign—’tain’ t worth a
half a sovereign!’ ‘Why not?’ persisted
the dealer; ’it talks all right, don’t
it?’ ‘Talks!’ retorted the indignant
farmer, ’the damn thing talks all day, but it
never says anything funny!’”
“A friend of mine,” said the Philosopher,
“once had a parrot—”
“Won’t you come into the garden?”
said the Woman of the World, rising and leading the
way.
“Myself,” said the Minor Poet, “I
read the book with the most intense enjoyment.
I found it inspiring—so inspiring, I fear
I did not give it sufficient attention. I must
read it again.”
“I understand you,” said the Philosopher.
“A book that really interests us makes us forget
that we are reading. Just as the most delightful
conversation is when nobody in particular appears to
be talking.”
“Do you remember meeting that Russian man George
brought down here about three months ago?” asked
the Woman of the World, turning to the Minor Poet.
“I forget his name. As a matter of fact,
I never knew it. It was quite unpronounceable
and, except that it ended, of course, with a double
f, equally impossible to spell. I told him frankly
at the beginning I should call him by his Christian
name, which fortunately was Nicholas. He was
very nice about it.”
“I remember him distinctly,” said the
Minor Poet. “A charming man.”
“He was equally charmed with you,” replied
the Woman of the World.
“I can credit it easily,” murmured the
Minor Poet. “One of the most intelligent
men I ever met.”
