She watched him tensely. At length, "Oh Jacynth," he
groaned, "don't--don't tempt me."
"But surely, dear, surely--"
"Jacynth, don't you remember that long talk we had last winter, after
the annual meeting of the Feathered Friends' League, and how we agreed
that those sporadic doles could do no real good--must even degrade the
birds who received them--and that we had no right to meddle in what
ought to be done by collective action of the State?"
"Yes, and--oh my dear, I do still agree, with all my heart. But if the
State will do nothing--nothing--"
"It won't, it daren't, go on doing nothing, unless we encourage it to
do so. Don't you see, Jacynth, it is just because so many people take
it on themselves to feed a few birds here and there that the State
feels it can afford to shirk the responsibility?"
"All that is fearfully true. But just now--Adrian, the look in that
robin's eyes--"
Berridge covered his own eyes, as though to blot out from his mind the
memory of that look. But Jacynth was not silenced. She felt herself
dragged on by her sense of duty to savour, and to make her husband
savour, the full bitterness that the situation could yield for
them both. "Adrian," she said, "a fearful thought came to me.
Suppose--suppose it had been Amber!"
Even before he shuddered at the thought, he raised his finger to his
lips, glancing round at the cage.
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