Was it really the case that people grew
in time to resemble the animals they kept as pets, and had
he unconsciously become more and more like the comically
solemn bird that was his constant companion? Groby was
unusually silent as he walked to the train with his escort
of chattering nephews and nieces, and during the short
railway journey his mind was more and more possessed with an
introspective conviction that he had gradually settled down
into a sort of parrot-like existence. What, after all, did
his daily routine amount to but a sedate meandering and
pecking and perching, in his garden, among his fruit trees,
in his wicker chair on the lawn, or by the fireside in his
library? And what was the sum total of his conversation with
chance-encountered neighbours? ``Quite a spring day, isn't
it?'' ``It looks as though we should have some rain.``
``Glad to see you about again; you must take care of
yourself.'' ``How the young folk shoot up, don't they?''
Strings of stupid, inevitable perfunctory remarks came to
his mind, remarks that were certainly not the mental
exchange of human intelligences, but mere empty parrot-talk.
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