“Oh, ma'am,” I cried reproachfully, “reflect. You have not got the great thing.” I saw her counting the great things in her mind, her wondrous husband and his obscure success, David, Barbara, and the other trifling contents of her jewel-box.
“I think I have,” said she.
“Come, madam,” I cried a little nettled, “you know that there is lacking the one thing you craved for most of all.”
Will you believe me that I had to tell her what it was? And when I had told her she exclaimed with extraordinary callousness, “The book? I had forgotten all about the book!” And then after reflection she added, “Pooh!” Had she not added Pooh I might have spared her, but as it was I raised the blotting-pad rather haughtily and presented her with the sheet beneath it.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Ma'am,” said I, swelling, “it is a Dedication,” and I walked majestically to the window.
There is no doubt that presently I heard an unexpected sound. Yet if indeed it had been a laugh she clipped it short, for in almost the same moment she was looking large-eyed at me and tapping my sleeve impulsively with her fingers, just as David does when he suddenly likes you.
“How characteristic of you,” she said at the window.
“Characteristic,” I echoed uneasily. “Ha!”
“And how kind.”