Chapter 26

The Dedication

It was only yesterday afternoon, dear reader, exactly three weeks
after the birth of Barbara, that I finished the book, and even
then it was not quite finished, for there remained the
dedication, at which I set to elatedly. I think I have never
enjoyed myself more; indeed, it is my opinion that I wrote the
book as an excuse for writing the dedication.

"Madam" (I wrote wittily), "I have no desire to exult over you,
yet I should show a lamentable obtuseness to the irony of things
were I not to dedicate this little work to you. For its
inception was yours, and in your more ambitious days you thought
to write the tale of the little white bird yourself. Why you so
early deserted the nest is not for me to inquire. It now appears
that you were otherwise occupied. In fine, madam, you chose the
lower road, and contented yourself with obtaining the Bird. May
I point out, by presenting you with this dedication, that in the
meantime I am become the parent of the Book? To you the shadow,
to me the substance. Trusting that you will accept my little
offering in a Christian spirit, I am, dear madam," etc.

It was heady work, for the saucy words showed their design
plainly through the varnish, and I was re-reading in an ecstasy,
when, without warning, the door burst open and a little boy
entered, dragging in a faltering lady.

"Father," said David, "this is mother."

Having thus briefly introduced us, he turned his attention to the
electric light, and switched it on and off so rapidly that, as
was very fitting, Mary and I may be said to have met for the
first time to the accompaniment of flashes of lightning. I think
she was arrayed in little blue feathers, but if such a costume is
not seemly, I swear there were, at least, little blue feathers in
her too coquettish cap, and that she was carrying a muff to
match. No part of a woman is more dangerous than her muff, and
as muffs are not worn in early autumn, even by invalids, I saw in
a twink, that she had put on all her pretty things to wheedle me.
I am also of opinion that she remembered she had worn blue in
the days when I watched her from the club-window. Undoubtedly
Mary is an engaging little creature, though not my style. She
was paler than is her wont, and had the touching look of one whom
it would be easy to break. I daresay this was a trick. Her
skirts made music in my room, but perhaps this was only because
no lady had ever rustled in it before. It was disquieting to me
to reflect that despite her obvious uneasiness, she was a very
artful woman.

With the quickness of David at the switch, I slipped a blotting-
pad over the dedication, and then, "Pray be