Біла пташка
The Dedication
ShebegantotalkofmyadventureswithDavidintheGardens,andofsomelittlethingsIhavenotmentionedhere,thatImayhavedoneforherwhenIwasinawaywardmood,andhervoicewasassoftashermuff.Shehadalsoanaffectingwayofpronouncingallherr’sasw’s,justasthefairiesdo.“Andso,”shesaid,“asyouwouldnotcometometobethanked,Ihavecometoyoutothankyou.”Whereuponshethankedmemostabominably.Shealsoslidoneofherhandsoutofthemuff,andthoughshewassmilinghereyeswerewet.
“Pooh,ma’am,”saidIindesperation,butIdidnottakeherhand.
“Iamnotverystrongyet,”shesaidwithlowcunning.Shesaidthistomakemetakeherhand,soItookit,andperhapsIpatteditalittle.ThenIwalkedbrusquelytothewindow.Thetruthis,Ibeguntothinkuncomfortablyofthededication.
Iwenttothewindowbecause,undoubtedly,itwouldbeeasiertoaddressherseverelyfrombehind,andIwantedtosaysomethingthatwouldstingher.
“Whenyouhavequitedone,ma’am,”Isaid,afteralongpause,“perhapsyouwillallowmetosayaword.”
Icouldseethebackofherheadonly,butIknew,fromDavid’sface,thatshehadgivenhimaquicklookwhichdidnotimplythatshewasstung.IndeedIfeltnow,asIhadfeltbefore,thatthoughshewasagitatedandinsomefearofme,shewasalsoenjoyingherselfconsiderably.
