What, after all, did his daily routine amount to but a sedate
meandering and pecking and perching, in his garden, among his
fruit trees, in his wicker chair on the lawn, or by the fireside
in his library? And what was the sum total of his conversation
with chance-encountered neighbours? "Quite a spring day, isn't
it?" "It looks as though we should have some rain." "Glad to see
you about again; you must take care of yourself." "How the young
folk shoot up, don't they?" Strings of stupid, inevitable
perfunctory remarks came to his mind, remarks that were certainly
not the mental exchange of human intelligences, but mere empty
parrot-talk. One might really just as well salute one's
acquaintances with "Pretty polly. Puss, puss, miaow!" Groby
began to fume against the picture of himself as a foolish
feathered fowl which his nephew's sketch had first suggested, and
which his own accusing imagination was filling in with such
unflattering detail.
"I'll give the beastly bird away," he said resentfully; though he
knew at the same time that he would do no such thing. It would
look so absurd after all the years that he had kept the parrot and
made much of it suddenly to try and find it a new home.
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