Sometimes the little boy who calls me father brings me an invitation from his mother: “I shall be so pleased if you will come and see me, ” and I always reply in some such words as these: “Dear madam, I decline.” And if David asks why I decline, I explain that it is because I have no desire to meet the woman. “Come this time, father, ” he urged lately, “for it is her birthday, and she is twenty-six, ” which is so great an age to David, that I think he fears she cannot last much longer. “Twenty-six, is she, David?” I replied. “Tell her I said she looks more.” I had my delicious dream that night. I dreamt that I too was twenty-six, which was a long time ago, and that I took train to a place called my home, whose whereabouts I see not in my waking hours, and when I alighted at the station a dear lost love was waiting for me, and we went away together. She met me in no ecstasy of emotion, nor was I surprised to find her there; it was as if we had been married for years and parted for a day. I like to think that I gave her some of the things to carry.
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