the Prado to me, with her cap and the little black silk apron on,
and with that marked personality of her own, which had been

concealed so perfectly in the dowdy walking dress, very much to the
fore.

"I have given Madame the message," she said in her contained voice,
swinging the door wide open. Then after relieving me of my hat and

coat she announced me with the simple words: "Voile Monsieur," and
hurried away. Directly I appeared Dona Rita, away there on the

couch, passed the tips of her fingers over her eyes and holding her
hands up palms outwards on each side of her head, shouted to me

down the whole length of the room: "The dry season has set in." I
glanced at the pink tips of her fingers perfunctorily and then drew

back. She let her hands fall negligently as if she had no use for
them any more and put on a serious expression.

"So it seems," I said, sitting down opposite her. "For how long, I
wonder."

"For years and years. One gets so little encouragement. First you
bolt away from my tears, then you send an impertinent message, and

then when you come at last you pretend to behave respectfully,
though you don't know how to do it. You should sit much nearer the

edge of the chair and hold yourself very stiff, and make it quite
clear that you don't know what to do with your hands."

All this in a fascinating voice with a ripple of badinage that
seemed to play upon the sober surface of her thoughts. Then seeing

that I did not answer she altered the note a bit.
"Amigo George," she said, "I take the trouble to send for you and

here I am before you, talking to you and you say nothing."
"What am I to say?"

"How can I tell? You might say a thousand things. You might, for
instance, tell me that you were sorry for my tears."

"I might also tell you a thousand lies. What do I know about your
tears? I am not a susceptible idiot. It all depends upon the

cause. There are tears of quiet happiness. Peeling onions also
will bring tears."

"Oh, you are not susceptible," she flew out at me. "But you are an
idiot all the same."

"Is it to tell me this that you have written to me to come?" I
asked with a certain animation.

"Yes. And if you had as much sense as the talking parrot I owned
once you would have read between the lines that all I wanted you

here for was to tell you what I think of you."
"Well, tell me what you think of me."

"I would in a moment if I could be half as impertinent as you are."
"What unexpected modesty," I said.

"These, I suppose, are your sea manners."
"I wouldn't put up with half that nonsense from anybody at sea.

Don't you remember you told me yourself to go away? What was I to
do?"

"How stupid you are. I don't mean that you pretend. You really
are. Do you understand what I say? I will spell it for you. S-t-

u-p-i-d. Ah, now I feel better. Oh, amigo George, my dear fellow-
conspirator for the king - the king. Such a king! Vive le Roi!

Come, why don't you shout Vive le Roi, too?"
"I am not your parrot," I said.

"No, he never sulked. He was a charming, good-mannered bird,
accustomed to the best society, whereas you, I suppose, are nothing

but a heartless vagabond like myself."
"I daresay you are, but I suppose nobody had the insolence to tell

you that to your face."
"Well, very nearly. It was what it amounted to. I am not stupid.

There is no need to spell out simple words for me. It just came
out. Don Juan struggled desperately to keep the truth in. It was

most pathetic. And yet he couldn't help himself. He talked very
much like a parrot."

"Of the best society," I suggested.
"Yes, the most honourable of parrots. I don't like parrot-talk.

It sounds so uncanny. Had I lived in the Middle Ages I am certain
I would have believed that a talking bird must be possessed by the

devil. I am sure Therese would believe that now. My own sister!
She would cross herself many times and simply quake with terror."

"But you were not terrified," I said. "May I ask when that
interesting communication took place?"

"Yesterday, just before you blundered in here of all days in the
year. I was sorry for him."

"Why tell me this? I couldn't help noticing it. I regretted I
hadn't my umbrella with me."

"Those unforgiven tears! Oh, you simple soul! Don't you know that
people never cry for anybody but themselves? . . . Amigo George,

tell me - what are we doing in this world?"
"Do you mean all the people, everybody?"

"No, only people like you and me. Simple people, in this world
which is eaten up with charlatanism of all sorts so that even we,

the simple, don't know any longer how to trust each other."
"Don't we? Then why don't you trust him? You are dying to do so,

don't you know?"
She dropped her chin on her breast and from under her straight

eyebrows the deep blue eyes remained fixed on me, impersonally, as
if without thought.

"What have you been doing since you left me yesterday?" she asked.
"The first thing I remember I abused your sister horribly this

morning."
"And how did she take it?"

"Like a warm shower in spring. She drank it all in and unfolded
her petals."

"What poetical expressions he uses! That girl is more perverted
than one would think possible, considering what she is and whence

she came. It's true that I, too, come from the same spot."
"She is slightly crazy. I am a great favourite with her. I don't

say this to boast."
"It must be very comforting."

"Yes, it has cheered me immensely. Then after a morning of
delightful musings on one thing and another I went to lunch with a

charming lady and spent most of the afternoon talking with her."
Dona Rita raised her head.

"A lady! Women seem such mysterious creatures to me. I don't know
them. Did you abuse her? Did she - how did you say that? - unfold

her petals, too? Was she really and truly . . .?"
"She is simply perfection in her way and the conversation was by no

means banal. I fancy that if your late parrot had heard it, he
would have fallen off his perch. For after all, in that Allegre

Pavilion, my dear Rita, you were but a crowd of glorified
bourgeois."

She was beautifullyanimated now. In her motionless blue eyes like
melted sapphires, around those red lips that almost without moving

could breathe enchanting sounds into the world, there was a play of
light, that mysteriousripple of gaiety that seemed always to run

and faintlyquiver under her skin even in her gravest moods; just
as in her rare moments of gaiety its warmth and radiance seemed to

come to one through infinitesadness, like the sunlight of our life
hiding the invincible darkness in which the universe must work out

its impenetrable destiny.
"Now I think of it! . . . Perhaps that's the reason I never could

feel perfectly serious while they were demolishing the world about
my ears. I fancy now that I could tell beforehand what each of

them was going to say. They were repeating the same words over and
over again, those great clever men, very much like parrots who also