“Oh yes. Please write anything you like.”
And now the awful question for young Arthur was: Whatever should he write? “With warmest regards” was too warm; “kind regards” were too cold; “good wishes” sounded like Christmas or a birthday; “remembrances” implied that things were at an end instead of a beginning. All these shades, the warmth, the reticence, the inspired audacity, might be indicated under the veil of verse. If he dared—
“I wish,” said Aggie, “you’d write me something of your own.” (She knew he did it.)
What more could he want than that she should divine him thus?
For twenty minutes (he thought they were only seconds), young Arthur lay flat on his stomach and brooded over the Browning. Aggie sat quiet as a mouse, lest the rustle of her gown should break the divine enchantment. At last it came.
“Dear, since you loved this book, it is your own—” That was how it began. Long afterwards Arthur would turn pale when he thought of how it went on; for it was wonderful how bad it was, especially the lines that had to rhyme.
He did not know it when he gave her back the book.
She read it over and over again, seeing how bad it was, and not caring. For her the beginning, middle, and end of that delicate lyric were in the one word “Dear.”
“Do you mind?” He had risen and was standing over her as she read.
“Mind?”