And then, what would Barty like for breakfast, dinner, supper after the play, and which of all those burgundies would do Barty good without giving him a headache next morning? and where was Barty to have his smoke?—in the library, of course. “Light the fire in the library, Mary; and Mr. Bob [that was me] can smoke there, too, instead of going outside,” etc., etc., etc. It is small wonder that he grew a bit selfish at times.
Though I was a little joyous now and then, it is quite without a shadow of bitterness or envy that I write all this. I have lived for fifty years under the charm of that genial, unconscious, irresistible tyranny; and, unlike my dear parents, I have lived to read and know Barty Josselin, nor merely to see and hear and love him for himself alone.
Indeed, it was quite im
