Mr. Bazzard has been the subject of one
of these dedications. Now, you know, I never had a play dedicated
to ME!'
Rosa looked at him as if she would have liked him to be the
recipient of a thousand dedications.
'Which again, naturally, rubs against the grain of Mr. Bazzard,'
said Mr. Grewgious. 'He is very short with me sometimes, and then
I feel that he is meditating, "This blockhead is my master! A
fellow who couldn't write a tragedy on pain of death, and who will
never have one dedicated to him with the most complimentary
congratulations on the high position he has taken in the eyes of
posterity!" Very trying, very trying. However, in giving him
directions, I reflect beforehand: "Perhaps he may not like this,"
or "He might take it ill if I asked that;" and so we get on very
well. Indeed, better than I could have expected.'
'Is the tragedy named, sir?' asked Rosa.
'Strictly between ourselves,' answered Mr. Grewgious, 'it has a
dreadfully appropriate name. It is called The Thorn of Anxiety.
But Mr. Bazzard hopes - and I hope - that it will come out at
last.'
It was not hard to divine that Mr. Grewgious had related the
Bazzard history thus fully, at least quite as much for the
recreation of his ward's mind from the subject that had driven her
there, as for the gratification of his own tendency to be social
and communicative.
'And now, my dear,' he said at this point, 'if you are not too
tired to tell me more of what passed to-day - but only if you feel
quite able - I should be glad to hear it.
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