" She turned to me.
"What did you say it was?"
I hoped that the Authority would speak first, and that the others
would then accept my assurance that they had misunderstood me the day
before; but he was entangled at that moment in a watercress sandwich,
the loose ends of which were still waiting to be tucked away.
I looked anxiously at the girl who had promised to remember, in case
she wanted to say something, but she also was silent. Everybody was
silent except that miserable bird.
Well, I had to have another go at it. "Blackman's Warbler," I said
firmly.
"Oh, yes," said my hostess.
"Blackman's Warbler; I shall always remember that," lied the
earnest-looking girl.
The Authority, who was free by this time, looked at me indignantly.
"Nonsense," he said; "it's the Chiff-chaff."
Everybody else looked at me reproachfully. I was about to say that
"Blackman's Warbler" was the local name for the Chiff-chaff in our part
of Flint, when the Authority spoke again.
"The Chiff-chaff," he said to our hostess with an insufferable air of
knowledge.
I wasn't going to stand that.
"So _I_ thought when I heard it first," I said, giving him a gentle
smile.
It was now the Authority's turn to get the reproachful looks.
"Are they very much alike?" my hostess asked me, much impressed.
"Very much. Blackman's Warbler is often mistaken for the Chiff-chaff,
even by so-called experts"--and I turned to the Authority and added,
"Have another sandwich, won't you?"--"and particularly so, of
course, during the breeding season.
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