Hon. in one of those nasty, bitter voices. “I thank you, however, for drawing the matter to my attention.”
Chitchat about the weather hadn’t gone with much of a bang, I perceived. I had a shot at Bird Life in the Home Counties.
“Have you ever noticed,” I said, “how a swan’s eyebrows sort of meet in the middle?”
“I have had every opportunity of observing all that there is to observe about swans.”
“Gives them a sort of peevish look, what?”
“The look to which you allude has not escaped me.”
“Rummy,” I said, rather warming to my subject, “how bad an effect family life has on a swan’s disposition.”
“I wish you would select some other topic of conversation than swans.”
“No, but, really, it’s rather interesting. I mean to say, our old pal down there is probably a perfect ray of sunshine in normal circumstances. Quite the domestic pet, don’t you know. But purely and simply because the little woman happens to be nesting—”
I paused. You will scarcely believe me, but until this moment, what with all the recent bustle and activity, I had clean forgotten that, while we were treed up on the roof like this, there lurked all the time in the background one whose giant brain, if notified of the emergency and requested to flock round, would probably be