"But it was only meant as a memoir for a friend of mine," I tell her, "who is daily growing nearer to me—to Randolph Byrd, aged seventy."
"Oh, no!" cries Alicia, looking with eyes shining with happiness and a face suddenly thrillingly transfigured at the sleeping baby in the hammock. "It is meant for another Randolph—Randolph the Young, over there, the pride and joy of his father—the hope of the world."
"It will hardly amuse him," I grunt.
"It will—won't it, Griselda?" says Alicia to our aged friend who at this moment emerges from the kitchen to consult with her mistress. Griselda looks mystified. "Say, yes—it's for Baby," urges Alicia cunningly.
"Oh, ay—if it's good for the bairn, I'll say it!"
Griselda, still vigorous, goes her way.
"One would think," I scoff, "you had found in the manuscript all the jests of Sancho Panza, falling like drops of rain."
"Jests!" mocks Alicia. "Who cares about jests, but the mysterious readers of comic supplements? I find in it the record of a beautiful love."
"But even love birds," I tease, "are only a species of parrot—though many think they're birds of paradise. Besides," I urge, "I should have to call the thing a novel—and this is only a fragment of life seen through two particular eyes and a very peculiar temperament. There is no contour to it, any more than there is to life itself. Were I a novelist, my dearest, I should not improbably make two or three novels of the stuff. I should at least assume the jolly privilege of playing destiny to all those people. All things and all persons should be rhythmically accounted for."
"Fudge!" says Alicia. "Don't be so cubist!" I ignore her modernism.