At the end of the polished table a very un-English little boy sat on a footstool in a high-backed, uncomfortable-looking chair.

He wore black velvet, and the kind of collar--all frills and lacey--that Robert would rather have died than wear; but then the little French boy was much younger than Robert.
'Oh, how pretty!' said every one.

But no one meant the little French boy, with the velvety short knickerbockers and the velvety short hair.
What every one admired was a little, little Christmas-tree, very green, and standing in a very red little flower-pot, and hung round with very bright little things made of tinsel and coloured paper.

There were tiny candles on the tree, but they were not lighted yet.
'But yes--is it not that it is genteel ?' said the lady.

'Sit down you then, and let us see.' The children sat down in a row on the stiff chairs against the wall, and the lady lighted a long, slim red taper at the wood flame, and then she drew the curtains and lit the little candles, and when they were all lighted the little French boy suddenly shouted, 'Bravo, ma tante! Oh, que c'est gentil,' and the English children shouted 'Hooray!' Then there was a struggle in the breast of Robert, and out fluttered the Phoenix--spread his gold wings, flew to the top of the Christmas-tree, and perched there.
'Ah! catch it, then,' cried the lady; 'it will itself burn--your genteel parrakeet!' 'It won't,' said Robert, 'thank you.' And the little French boy clapped his clean and tidy hands; but the lady was so anxious that the Phoenix fluttered down and walked up and down on the shiny walnut-wood table.
'Is it that it talks ?' asked the lady.
And the Phoenix replied in excellent French.