"Isn't it _ever_ going to talk?" I asked. "Really, I thought parrots were continually chatting." "Yes, but they have to be taught--just like you teach a baby." "Are you sure? I quite see that you have to teach them any special things you want them to say, but I thought they were all born with a few simple obvious remarks, like 'Poor Polly,' or--or 'Dash LLOYD GEORGE.'" "I don't think so," said Miss Atherley. "Not the green ones." At dinner that evening, Mr. Atherley being now with us, the question of Evangeline's education was seriously considered. "The only proper method," began Mr. Atherley--"By the way," he said, turning to me, "you don't know anything about parrots, do you?" "No," I said. "You can go on quite safely." "The only proper method of teaching a parrot--I got this from a man in the City this morning--is to give her a word at a time, and to go on repeating it over and over again until she's got hold of it." "And after that the parrot goes on repeating it over and over again until you've got sick of it," said Archie. "Then we shall have to be very careful what word we choose," said Mrs. Atherley. "What is your favourite word?" "Well, really--" "Animal, vegetable or mineral?" asked Archie. "This is quite impossible. Every word by itself seems so silly." "Not 'home' and 'mother,'" I said reproachfully. "You shall recite your little piece in the drawing-room afterwards," said Miss Atherley to me. "Think of something sensible now." "Yes," said Mrs. Atherley. "What's the latest word from London?" "Kikuyu." "What?" "I can't say it again," I protested. "If you can't even say it twice, it's no good for Evangeline." A thoughtful silence fell upon us. "Have you fixed on a name for her yet?" Miss Atherley asked her mother. "Evangeline, of course." "No, I mean a name for her to call _you_. Because if she's going to call you 'Auntie' or 'Darling,' or whatever you decide on, you'd better start by teaching her that." And then I had a brilliant idea. "I've got the very word," I said. "It's 'hallo.' You see, it's a pleasant form of greeting to any stranger, and it will go perfectly with the next word that she's taught, whatever it may be." "Supposing it's 'wardrobe,'" suggested Archie, "or 'sardine'?" "Why not? 'Hallo, Sardine' is the perfect title for a _revue_. Witty, subtle, neat--probably the great brain of the Revue King has already evolved it, and is planning the opening scene." "Yes, 'hallo' isn't at all bad," said Mr. Atherley. "Anyway, it's better than 'Poor Polly,' which is simply morbid. Let's fix on 'hallo.'" "Good," said Mrs. Atherley. Evangeline said nothing, being asleep under her blanket. * * * * * I was down first next morning, having forgotten to wind up my watch overnight. Longing for company I took the blanket off Evangeline's cage and introduced her to the world again. She stirred sleepily, opened her eyes and blinked at me. "Hallo, Evangeline," I said.