“I should not have come,” she said nervously, and then seemed to wait for some response, so I bowed.
“I was terrified to come, indeed I was,” she assured me with obvious sincerity.
“But I have come,” she finished rather baldly.
“It is an epitome, ma'am,” said I, seeing my chance, “of your whole life,” and with that I put her into my elbow-chair.
She began to talk of my adventures with David in the Gardens, and of some little things I have not mentioned here, that I may have done for her when I was in a wayward mood, and her voice was as soft as her muff. She had also an affecting way of pronouncing all her r's as w's, just as the fairies do. “And so,” she said, “as you would not come to me to be thanked, I have come to you to thank you.” Whereupon she thanked me most abominably. She also slid one of her hands out of the muff, and though she was smiling her eyes were wet.
“Pooh, ma'am,” said I in desperation, but I did not take her hand.
“I am not very strong yet,” she said with low cunning. She said this to make me take her hand, so I took it, and perhaps I patted it a little. Then I walked brusquely to the window. The truth is, I begun to think uncomfortably of the dedication.
I went to the window because, undoubtedly, it would be easier to address her severely from behind, and I wanted to say something that would sting her.
“When you have quite done, ma'am,” I said, after a long pause, “perhaps you will allow me to say a word.”
I could see the back of her head only, but I knew, from David's face, that she had given him a quick look which did not imply that she was stung. Indeed I felt now, as I had felt before, that though she was agitated and in some fear of me, she was also enjoying herself considerably.