It was I who talked--
telling him how I loved him--how satin red his waistcoat was--how large
and bright his eyes--how delicate and elegant his slender legs. I
flattered him a great deal. He adored flattery and I am sure he loved me
most when I told him that it was impossible to say anything which could
flatter him. It gave him confidence in my good taste.
One morning--a heavenly sunny one--I was conversing with him by the
Laurette Messimys again and he was evidently much pleased with the
things I said. Perhaps he liked my hat which was a large white one with
a wreath of roses round its crown. I saw him look at it and I gently
hinted that I had worn it in the hope that he would approve. I had
broken off a handful of coral pink Laurettes and was arranging them idly
when--he spread his wings in a sudden upward flight--a tiny swift flight
which ended--among the roses on my hat--the very hat on my head.
Did I make myself still then? Did I stir by a single hairbreadth? Who
does not know? I scarcely let myself breathe. I could not believe that
such a thing of pure joy could be true.
But in a minute I realized that he at least was not afraid to move. He
was perfectly at home. He hopped about the brim and examined the roses
with delicate pecks. That I was under the hat apparently only gave him
confidence.
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