A guilty guest's lingering aftertaste

I must have been 6 or 7 when I got a taste of what it is to be a guilty guest. It was not the only horrid taste I was to experience that day. My father had taken me to visit some friends of his, who had an elegant and well-furnished house. As the adults sat chatting outside, I was encouraged to explore.

Drifting through the sitting room, I happened to see something intriguing on the fireplace mantle. It was a real little bird’s nest made of twigs and hay. Inside it were three realistic-looking little eggs, pale blue and lightly speckled. They looked so pretty. They looked as if they were made of chocolate.