'He did,' said three voices, and three fingers pointed at Robert.

The bird bowed; at least it was more like that than anything else.

'I am your grateful debtor,' it said with a high-bred air.

The children were all choking with wonder and curiosity--all except
Robert. He held the paper in his hand, and he KNEW. He said so.
He said--

'_I_ know who you are.'

And he opened and displayed a printed paper, at the head of which
was a little picture of a bird sitting in a nest of flames.

'You are the Phoenix,' said Robert; and the bird was quite pleased.

'My fame has lived then for two thousand years,' it said. 'Allow
me to look at my portrait.' It looked at the page which Robert,
kneeling down, spread out in the fender, and said--

'It's not a flattering likeness ... And what are these
characters?' it asked, pointing to the printed part.

'Oh, that's all dullish; it's not much about YOU, you know,' said
Cyril, with unconscious politeness; 'but you're in lots of books.'

'With portraits?' asked the Phoenix.