The
servants, who had come to regard the defunct bird as a regular
member of the household, and one who gave really very little
trouble, were scandalized to find his bloodthirsty aggressor
installed in his place as an honoured domestic pet.
"A nasty heathen ipe what don't never say nothing sensible and
cheerful, same as pore Polly did," was the unfavourable verdict of
the kitchen quarters.
. . . . . . . . .
One Sunday morning, some twelve or fourteen months after the visit
of Colonel John and the parrot-tragedy, Miss Wepley sat decorously
in her pew in the parish church, immediately in front of that
occupied by Groby Lington. She was, comparatively speaking a new-
comer in the neighbourhood, and was not personally acquainted with
her fellow-worshipper in the seat behind, but for the past two
years the Sunday morning service had brought them regularly within
each other's sphere of consciousness. Without having paid
particular attention to the subject, she could probably have given
a correct rendering of the way in which he pronounced certain
words occurring in the responses, while he was well aware of the
trivial fact that, in addition to her prayer book and
handkerchief, a small paper packet of throat lozenges always
reposed on the seat beside her.
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