That, I had intended telling him, wasn’t playing quite fair. But when he reached out his hands toward me, exactly as I’ve seen his own Dinky do at nightfall when a darkening room left his little spirit hungry for companionship, something melted like an overlooked chocolate mousse in my crazy old maternal heart, and before I was altogether aware of it I’d let my hands slip over his shoulders as he knelt with his bowed head in my lap. The sight of his colorless and unhappy face with that indescribable homeless-dog look in his eyes was too much for me. I gave up. I hugged his head to my breast-bone as though it were my only life-buoy in an empty and endless Atlantic and only stopped when I had to rub the end of my nose, which I couldn’t keep a collection of several big tears from tickling.
“I’m a fool, Dinky-Dunk, a most awful fool,” I tried to tell him, when he gave me a chance to breathe again. “And I’ve got a temper like a bob-cat!”
“No, no, Beloved,” he protested, “it’s not foolishness—it’s nobility!”
I couldn’t answer him, for his arms had closed about me again. “And I love you, Tabbie, I love you with every inch of my body!”
Women are weak. And there is no such thing, so far as I know, as an altogether and utterly perfect man. So we must winnow strength out of our weakness, make the best of a bad bargain, and over-scroll the walls of our life-cell with the illusions which may come to mean as much as the stone and iron that imprison us. All we can do, we who are older and wiser, is wistfully to overlook the wobble where the meshed perfection of youth has been bruised and abused and loosened, tighten up the bearings, and keep as blithely as we can to the worn old road. For life, after all, is a turn-pike of concession deep-bedded with compromise. And our To-morrows are only our To-days over again.... So Dinky-Dunk, who keeps saying in unexpected and intriguing ways that he can’t live without me, is trying to make love to me as he did in the old days before he got salt-and-peppery above the ears. And I’m blockhead enough to believe him. I’m like an old shoe, I suppose, comfortable but not showy. Yet it’s the children we really have to think of. Our crazy old patch-work of the Past may be our own, but the Future belongs to them. There’s a heap of good, though, in my humble-eyed old Dinky-Dunk, too much good ever to lose him, whatever may have happened in the days that are over.
Sunday the Twenty-fourth
Dinky-Dunk, whom I actually heard singing as he took his bath this morning, is exercising his paternal prerogative of training little Dinkie to go to bed without a light. He has peremptorily taken the matter out of my hands, and is, of course, prodigiously solemn about it all.
“I’ll show that young Turk who’s boss around this house!” he magisterially proclaims almost every night when the youthful wails of protest start to come from the Blue Room in the East Wing.
And off he goes, with his Holbein’s Astronomer mouth set firm and the fiercest of frowns on his face.