"Then the thing is settled," I say. "We'll write to Dirty and give her
notice. There's nothing else to be done. I will write now and you can
give the letter yourself to the postman, when he comes this afternoon.
If you take my advice, you will make her a present of your ball. Then
she will not be so much upset."
"She can have my gold-fish too, if she likes," says the boy.
"Excellent, excellent. We will give her the gold-fish. Then she will
really have nothing in the world to complain of."
My little boy goes away. But, presently, he returns:
"Father, have you written the letter to Dirty?"
"Not yet, my boy. There is time enough. I sha'n't forget it."
"Father, I am so fond of Dirty."
"She was certainly a dear little girl."
A silence.
"Father, I am also so fond of Erna."
We look at each other. This is no joke:
"Perhaps we had better wait with the letter till tomorrow," I say. "Or
perhaps it would be best if we talked to Dirty ourselves, when we get
back to town."
We both ponder over the matter and really don't know what to do.
Then my eyes surprise an indescribable smile on our mother's face. All a
woman's incapacity to understand man's honesty is contained within that
smile and I resent it greatly:
"Come," I say and give my hand to my little boy. "Let us go."
And we go to a place we know of, far away behind the hedge, where we lie
on our backs and look up at the blue sky and talk together sensibly, as
two gentlemen should.