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The Dedication
“Morethantwentyyearsago,”shesaidwithasofthuskinessinhervoice,andatremorandasweetness,asifshedidnotknowthatintwentyyearsalllovestoriesaregrownmouldy.
OnmyhonourasasoldierthisexplanationofmyearlysolicitudeforMarywasonethathadneverstruckme,butthemoreIpondereditnow—.Iraisedherhandandtoucheditwithmylips,aswewhimsicaloldfellowsdowhensomegraciousgirlmakesustohearthekeyinthelockoflongago.“Why,ma’am,”Isaid,“itisaprettynotion,andtheremaybesomethinginit.Letusleaveitatthat.”
Buttherewasstillthataccurseddedication,lying,youremember,beneaththeblotting-pad.Ihadnolongeranydesiretocrushherwithit.Iwishedthatshehadsucceededinwritingthebookonwhichherlongingshadbeensoset.
“Ifonlyyouhadbeenlessambitious,”Isaid,muchtroubledthatsheshouldbedisappointedinherheart’sdesire.
“Iwantedallthedeardeliciousthings,”sheadmittedcontritely.
“Itwasunreasonable,”Isaideagerly,appealingtoherintellect.“Especiallythislastthing.”
“Yes,”sheagreedfrankly,“Iknow.”Andthentomyamazementsheaddedtriumphantly,“ButIgotit.”
Isupposemylookadmonishedher,forshecontinuedapologeticallybutstillasifshereallythoughthershadbeenaromanticcareer,“IknowIhavenotdeservedit,butIgotit.”
“Oh,ma’am,”Icriedreproachfully,“reflect.Youhavenotgotthegreatthing.
