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If you don't, I'll tell you the story of those letters." Ronald stared. "What do you mean? Don't they tell their own story?" "I supposed they did when I gave them to you; but you've given it a twist that needs straightening out." Mr. Grew squared his elbows on the table, and looked at the young man across the gift-books and the dyed pampas grass. "I wrote all the letters that Dolbrowski answered."
Fortune Dolbrowski helped me do that. I never saw things in little again after I'd looked at 'em with him. And I tried to give you the big view from the stars... So that's what became of my letters." Mr. Grew paused, and for a long time Ronald sat motionless, his elbows on the table, his face dropped on his hands. Suddenly Mr. Grew's touch fell on his shoulder.
Grew's sitting-room commemorated the only exquisite hour of his life save that of Ronald's birth. It was some time before the latter memorable event, a few months only after Mr. Grew's marriage, that he had taken his wife to New York to hear the great Dolbrowski.
And the month after, before he went back to Europe, he sent your mother a last little note, and that picture hanging up there..." Mr. Grew paused again, and both men lifted their eyes to the photograph. "Is that all?" Ronald slowly asked. "That's all every bit of it," said Mr. Grew. "And my mother my mother never even spoke to Dolbrowski?" "Never.
It sets up a gawky fellow to find a girl who ain't ashamed to be seen walking with him Sundays. And I was grateful to your mother, and we got along first-rate. Only I couldn't say things to her and she couldn't answer. Well one day, a few months after we were married, Dolbrowski came to New York, and the whole place went wild about him.
"But how could you go on with such a correspondence? It's incredible!" Mr. Grew looked at his son thoughtfully. "I suppose it is, to you. You've only had to put out your hand and get the things I was starving for music, and good talk, and ideas. Those letters gave me all that. You've read them, and you know that Dolbrowski was not only a great musician but a great man.
The photograph represented a young man with a poetic necktie and untrammelled hair, leaning negligently against a Gothic chair-back, a roll of music in his hand; and beneath was scrawled a bar of Chopin, with the words: " Adieu, Adele." The portrait was that of the great pianist, Fortune Dolbrowski; and its presence on the wall of Mr.
And she got pink and said: 'I don't understand it, but it's lovely. And she copied it out and signed her name to it, and sent it." Mr. Grew paused, and Ronald sat silent, with lowered eyes. "That's how it began; and that's where I thought it would end. But it didn't, because Dolbrowski answered. His first letter was dated January 10, 1872. I guess you'll find I'm correct.
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