“Get a hump on!” said a loud, rude voice.

Aunt Caroline jumped.

“Oh, my dear!  It’s that horrible parrot.  Benis insists on keeping it.  Some soldier friend of his left it to him.  A really terrible bird.  And its language is disgraceful.  It doesn’t know anything but slang.  Not even ‘Polly wants a cracker.’  You’ll hardly believe me, but it says, ‘Gimme the eats!’ instead.”

“Can it!” said the parrot.  Aunt Caroline fled.

Desire, to whom a talking bird was a delightful novelty, went over to the large cage where a beautiful green and yellow parrot swung mournfully, head down.

“Pretty Polly,” said Desire timidly.

The bird made a chuckling noise in his throat like a derisive goblin.

“What is your name, Polly?”

“Yorick,” said Polly unexpectedly.  “Alas.  Poor Yorick!  I knew him well.”

“You’d think it knew what I said!” thought Desire with a start.  She edged away and once more the welcoming spirit of the room rose up to meet her.  She tried first one chair and then another, fingered the leather on their backs and finally settled on the light, straight one in the round window.  It was as familiar as the glove upon her hand, and the view from the window—­well, the view from the window was partially blocked by the professor under the beech tree, smoking.

Seeing her, he discarded his cigar and came nearer, leaning on the sill of the opened window.

“You haven’t got your hat off yet,” he said in a discontented tone.  “Aren’t you going to stay?”

“May not a lady wear her hat in her own house?”

“Oh, I see.  Then I shan’t have to butter your fingers?”

“Do you compare me to a stray cat?”

“I never compare you to anything.”

Desire wanted terribly to ask why, but an unaccustomed shyness prevented her.  Instead she asked if Yorick were really the parrot’s name.

“I don’t know.  But he says it is, so I take his word for it.  Do you want to talk about parrots?  Because it’s not one of my best subjects.  May I change it?”

“If you like.”

“Don’t say, ‘If you like,’ say ‘Right-o.’  I always do when I think of it.  Since the war it is expected of one—­a sign of this new fraternity, you know, between Englishmen and Colonials.  Everyone over there is expected to say ‘I guess’ for the same reason.  Only they don’t do it.  How do you like your workroom?” “Mine?”

“I thought you might not like me to say ‘Ours.’”

“Don’t be silly!”

“Well, how do you like it, anyway?”

Desire’s eyes met his for an instant and then fell quickly.  But not before he had seen a mistiness which looked remarkably like—­Good heavens, he might have known that she would be tired and upset!

“You have noticed, of course,” he went on lightly, “that we have fireplaces?  They are very dirty but they provide atmosphere.  Almost too much atmosphere sometimes.  There are no dampers and when the wind blows the wrong way—­Oh, my dear child, do cry if you really feel like it.”