"What was the other thing?"
"The bird hinted that all this would end in your marrying the widow of that poor wretch who destroyed himself."
"Johnny, my boy," said the artist, after a moment's silence, "if I give you a bit of advice, will you profit by it?"
"I'll try, if it's not disagreeable."
"Whether you profit by it, or whether you do not, keep it to yourself. I know the bird better than you do, and I strongly caution you to beware of the bird. The bird is a bird of prey, and altogether an unclean bird. The bird wants a mate and doesn't much care how she finds one. And the bird wants money, and doesn't much care how she gets it. The bird is a decidedly bad bird, and not at all fit to take the place of domestic hen in a decent farmyard. In plain English, Johnny, you'll find some day, if you go over too often to Porchester Terrace, either that you are going to marry the bird, or else that you are employing your cousin Toogood for your defence in an action for breach of promise, brought against you by that venerable old bird, the bird's mamma."
"If it's to be either, it will be the latter," said Johnny as he took up his hat to go away.
