"It's all right," said I. "Only--only it _is_ such a pity!"

"You're ill, young fellah, that's what's amiss with you," said
Lord John. "I thought you were queer from the first."

"Your habits, sir, have not mended in these three years," said
Summerlee, shaking his head. "I also did not fail to observe
your strange manner the moment we met. You need not waste your
sympathy, Lord John. These tears are purely alcoholic. The man
has been drinking. By the way, Lord John, I called you a coxcomb
just now, which was perhaps unduly severe. But the word reminds
me of a small accomplishment, trivial but amusing, which I used
to possess. You know me as the austere man of science. Can you
believe that I once had a well-deserved reputation in several
nurseries as a farmyard imitator? Perhaps I can help you to pass
the time in a pleasant way. Would it amuse you to hear me crow
like a cock?"

"No, sir," said Lord John, who was still greatly offended, "it
would _not_ amuse me."

"My imitation of the clucking hen who had just laid an egg was
also considered rather above the average. Might I venture?"

"No, sir, no--certainly not."

But in spite of this earnest prohibition, Professor Summerlee
laid down his pipe and for the rest of our journey he
entertained--or failed to entertain--us by a succession of bird
and animal cries which seemed so absurd that my tears were