Lady Anne showed no sign of being impressed.

Egbert looked at her nervously through his glasses. To get the
worst of an argument with her was no new experience. To get the
worst of a monologue was a humiliating novelty.

"I shall go and dress for diner," he announced in a voice into which
he intended some shade of sternness to creep.

At the door a final access of weakness impelled him to make a
further appeal.

"Aren't we being very silly?"

"A fool" was Don Tarquinio's mental comment as the door closed on
Egbert's retreat. Then he lifted his velvet forepaws in the air and
leapt lightly on to a bookshelf immediately under the bullfinch's
cage. It was the first time he had seemed to notice the bird's
existence, but he was carrying out a long-formed theory of action
with the precision of mature deliberation. The bullfinch, who had
fancied himself something of a despot, depressed himself of a sudden
into a third of his normal displacement; then he fell to a helpless
wing-beating and shrill cheeping. He had cost twenty-seven
shillings without the cage, but Lady Anne made no sign of
interfering. She had been dead for two hours.



THE LOST SANJAK