Publisher's Synopsis
Sometimes the little boy who calls me father brings me an invitation from his mother: "Ishall be so pleased if you will come and see me," and I always reply in some such words asthese: "Dear madam, I decline." And if David asks why I decline, I explain that it is because Ihave 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 longtime ago, and that I took train to a place called my home, whose whereabouts I see not inmy 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 tofind her there; it was as if we had been married for years and parted for a day. I like tothink that I gave her some of the things to carry.Were I to tell my delightful dream to David's mother, to whom I have never in my lifeaddressed one word, she would droop her head and raise it bravely, to imply that I makeher very sad but very proud, and she would be wishful to lend me her absurd little pockethandkerchief. And then, had I the heart, I might make a disclosure that would startle her, for it is not the face of David's mother that I see in my dreams.
