To-day, moreover, crowning
the composition, there was the delicate pungency of the holly that
topped the Queen Anne mirror and the Mantegna prints.
Coming forward into the room, Mr. Berridge greeted the canary.
"Well, Amber, old fellow," he said, "a happy Christmas to you!"
Affectionately he pushed the tip of a plump white finger between the
bars. "Tweet!" he added.
"Tweet!" answered the bird, hopping to and fro along his perch.
"Quite an old-fashioned Christmas, Amber!" said Mr. Berridge, turning
to scan the weather. At sight of the robin, a little spasm of pain
contracted his face. A shine of tears came to his prominent pale eyes,
and he turned quickly away. Just at that moment, heralded by a slight
fragrance of old lace and of that peculiar, almost unseizable odour
that uncut turquoises have, Mrs. Berridge appeared.
"What is the matter, Adrian?" she asked quickly. She glanced sideways
into the Queen Anne mirror, her hand fluttering, like a pale moth, to
her hair, which she always wore braided in a fashion she had derived
from Pollaiuolo's St. Ursula.
"Nothing, Jacynth--nothing," he answered with a lightness that carried
no conviction; and he made behind his back a gesture to frighten away
the robin.
"Amber isn't unwell, is he?" She came quickly to the cage.
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