"It implies a grumble," said Peter, "like the 'thank you' of a
servant dissatisfied with his tip. It's the very least he can
do. It's perfunctory--I 'm not sure it is n't even ironical."

"Perfunctory! Ironical!" cried the Duchessa. "Look at him!
He's warbling his delicious little soul out."

They both paused to look and listen.

The bird's gold-red bosom palpitated. He marked his
modulations by sudden emphatic movements of the head. His eyes
were fixed intently before him, as if he could actually see and
follow the shining thread of his song, as it wound away through
the air. His performance had all the effect of a spontaneous
rhapsody. When it was terminated, he looked down at his
auditors, eager, inquisitive, as who should say, "I hope you
liked it?"--and then, with a nod clearly meant as a farewell,
flew out of sight.

The Duchessa smiled again at Peter, with intention.

"You must really try to take a cheerier view of things," she
said.

And next instant she too was off, walking slowly, lightly, up
the green lawns, between the trees, towards the castle, her
gown fluttering in the breeze, now dazzling white as she came
into the sun, now pearly grey as she passed into the shade.