"Cabled first: 'Married Mavis. Meet us in New York at Uncle John's as soon as you can.' And then, I wrote and sent it by someone who was sailing sooner. She will break the trip from California in Chicago, she has cousins there. I hope the letter will catch her." "I've never had a mother," I said, the least bit wistfully. "You have one now," said Bill. Cuba had long since disappeared. I closed my eyes for a second to keep the memory of all we had left clear and vivid. The Palms--the cane, as it had looked before the fire, emerald-green and graceful--the red soil of Guayabal and the long, white roads--the mountains in the distance--the palm-trees, straight as arrows, with their rustling tops--my own orchids, little lavender balloons--peacocks and ox-carts--naked brown babies creeping in the sun--sunlight on adobe and thatch--and Arthur, screaming raucously for his morning coffee. No, I would never forget. The trip passed like a dream. Peter found some American children to play with on the boat, and romped with them under the watchful eyes of a correct English nurse. Sarah, with Wiggles, kept to her cabin. And Bill and I, exchanging polite platitudes with the people at our table, were left very much to ourselves. And the voyage was calm, totally unlike the one we had taken so many months before. It was on the boat that I read some of Richard Warren's new poems, part of the new volume. And, sitting in a sheltered corner of the deck, I watched my husband write the dedication across a white sheet of paper: "To my wife." "I'm very proud," said I, a little tremulously. "They are beautiful. Wright knew. He said they were bigger and finer than the others. But," I added, "after all, I fell in love with _The Lyric Hour_, Bill." "But these," said Bill, "are your own." And so they were. "Now," he said, "suppose you show me what you were so careful to hide from me in Cuba?" "Did Wright--?" I began indignantly, "What do you mean?" "No, Wright didn't. But I guessed. Have I written for nothing all these years? I'm a sleuth when it comes to a fellow-craftsman. Besides, there's this--" He drew a crumpled sheet from his inner pocket. I snatched at it. "That old thing!" said I, with scorn. "Where did you find it?" "I couldn't account for your inky little hands and your fits of abstraction," he answered, "solely by an explanation of your love for letter-writing and your dislike of me." "Where did you find it, Creature?" I demanded again. "In Wright's pocket. Old coat, on a chair--I was looking for a match." "Doesn't sound plausible," said I, spreading out the blotted paper. Bill read with me, over my shoulder. AFTER SUNSET