“Father,” said David, “this is mother.”
Having thus briefly introduced us, he turned his attention to the electric light, and switched it on and off so rapidly that, as was very fitting, Mary and I may be said to have met for the first time to the accompaniment of flashes of lightning. I think she was arrayed in little blue feathers, but if such a costume is not seemly, I swear there were, at least, little blue feathers in her too coquettish cap, and that she was carrying a muff to match. No part of a woman is more dangerous than her muff, and as muffs are not worn in early autumn, even by invalids, I saw in a twink, that she had put on all her pretty things to wheedle me. I am also of opinion that she remembered she had worn blue in the days when I watched her from the club-window. Undoubtedly Mary is an engaging little creature, though not my style. She was paler than is her wont, and had the touching look of one whom it would be easy to break. I daresay this was a trick. Her skirts made music in my room, but perhaps this was only because no lady had ever rustled in it before. It was disquieting to me to reflect that despite her obvious uneasiness, she was a very artful woman.
With the quickness of David at the switch, I slipped a blotting-pad over the dedication, and then, “Pray be seated,” I said coldly, but she remained standing, all in a twitter and very much afraid of me, and I know that her hands were pressed together within the muff. Had there been any dignified means of escape, I think we would both have taken it.
“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.
In such circumstances I might as well have tried to sting a sandbank, so I said, rather off my watch, “If I have done all this for you, why did I do it?”
She made no answer in words, but seemed to grow taller in the chair, so that I could see her shoulders, and I knew from this that she was now holding herself conceitedly and trying to look modest. “Not a bit of it, ma’am,” said I sharply, “that was not the reason at all.”
I was pleased to see her whisk round, rather indignant at last.
“I never said it was,” she retorted with spirit, “I never thought for a moment that it was.” She added, a trifle too late in the story, “Besides, I don’t know what you are talking of.”
I think I must have smiled here, for she turned from me quickly, and became quite little in the chair again.
“David,” said I mercilessly, “did you ever see your mother blush?”
“What is blush?”
“She goes a beautiful pink colour.”
David, who had by this time broken my connection with the head office, crossed to his mother expectantly.
“I don’t, David,” she cried.
“I think,” said I, “she will do it now,” and with the instinct of a gentleman I looked away. Thus I cannot tell what happened, but presently David exclaimed admiringly, “Oh, mother, do it again!”
As she would not, he stood on the fender to see in the mantel-glass whether he could do it himself, and then Mary turned a most candid face on me, in which was maternity rather than reproach. Perhaps no look given by woman to man affects him quite so much. “You see,” she said radiantly and with a gesture that disclosed herself to me, “I can forgive even that. You long ago earned the right to hurt me if you want to.”
It weaned me of all further desire to rail at Mary, and I felt an uncommon drawing to her.
“And if I did think that for a little while—,” she went on, with an unsteady smile.
“Think what?” I asked, but
