Біла пташка
The Dedication
Ithinkshewasarrayedinlittlebluefeathers,butifsuchacostumeisnotseemly,Isweartherewere,atleast,littlebluefeathersinhertoocoquettishcap,andthatshewascarryingamufftomatch.Nopartofawomanismoredangerousthanhermuff,andasmuffsarenotworninearlyautumn,evenbyinvalids,Isawinatwink,thatshehadputonallherprettythingstowheedleme.IamalsoofopinionthatsherememberedshehadwornblueinthedayswhenIwatchedherfromtheclub-window.UndoubtedlyMaryisanengaginglittlecreature,thoughnotmystyle.Shewaspalerthanisherwont,andhadthetouchinglookofonewhomitwouldbeeasytobreak.Idaresaythiswasatrick.Herskirtsmademusicinmyroom,butperhapsthiswasonlybecausenoladyhadeverrustledinitbefore.Itwasdisquietingtometoreflectthatdespiteherobviousuneasiness,shewasaveryartfulwoman.
WiththequicknessofDavidattheswitch,Islippedablotting-padoverthededication,andthen,“Praybeseated,”Isaidcoldly,butsheremainedstanding,allinatwitterandverymuchafraidofme,andIknowthatherhandswerepressedtogetherwithinthemuff.Hadtherebeenanydignifiedmeansofescape,Ithinkwewouldbothhavetakenit.
“Ishouldnothavecome,”shesaidnervously,andthenseemedtowaitforsomeresponse,soIbowed.
“Iwasterrifiedtocome,indeedIwas,”sheassuredmewithobvioussincerity.
“ButIhavecome,”shefinishedratherbaldly.
“Itisanepitome,ma’am,”saidI,seeingmychance,“ofyourwholelife,”andwiththatIputherintomyelbow-chair.
