It was clear that Amber had not
overheard Jacynth's remark, for he threw back his head and uttered one
of his blithest trills. Adrian, thus relieved, was free to shudder at
the thought just suggested.
"Sometimes," murmured Jacynth, "I wonder if we, holding the views we
hold, are justified in keeping Amber."
"Ah, dear, we took him in our individualistic days. We cannot
repudiate him now. It wouldn't be fair. Besides, you see, he isn't
here on a basis of mere charity. He's not a parasite, but an artist.
He gives us of his art."
"Yes, dear, I know. But you remember our doubts about the position of
artists in the community--whether the State ought to sanction them at
all."
"True. But we cannot visit those doubts on our old friend yonder, can
we, dear? At the same time, I admit that when--when--Jacynth, if
ever anything happens to Amber, we shall perhaps not be justified in
keeping another bird."
"Don't, please don't talk of such things." She moved to the window.
Snow, a delicate white powder, was falling on the coverlet of snow.
Outside, on the sill, the importunate robin lay supine, his little
heart beating no more behind the shabby finery of his breast, but
his glazing eyes half-open as though even in death he were still
questioning.
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