After all, it came to the same thing; for to Poppy the peculiar charm of Ricky-ticky was his innocence.
The clock on St.Pancras church struck half-past eleven; in his hanging cage in the front room, behind his yellow gauze curtain, Poppy's canary woke out of his first sleep.

He untucked his head from under his wing and chirrupped drowsily.
"Oh, dicky," said Poppy, "it's time you were in your little bed!" He did not take the hint.

He was intent on certain movements of Poppy's fingers and the tip of her tongue concerned in the making of cigarettes.
He was gazing into her face as if it held for him the secret of the world.

And that look embarrassed her.

It had all the assurance of age and all the wonder of youth in it.