She is a big, large-limbed young woman, three years his senior, and no doubt belongs to the minor² aristocracy. Her name is Gertie. By a misunderstanding, however, which is pardonable at his age and moreover quite explained by Gertie's appearance, he calls her Dirty—little Dirty—and by this name she will be handed down to history.

 

He met her on the boulevard, where he was playing, in the fine spring weather, with other children. His reason for the engagement is good enough:

 

"I wanted a girl for myself," he says.

 

Either I know very little of mankind or he has made a fortunate choice. No one is likely to take Dirty from him.

 

Like the gentleman that he is, he at once brings the girl home to us and introduces her. In consequence of the formality of the occasion, he does not go in by the kitchen way, as usual, but rings the front-door bell. I open the door myself. There he stands on the mat, hand in hand with Dirty, his bride, and, with radiant eyes:

 

"Father," he says, "this is little Dirty. She is my sweetheart. We are going to be married."

 

"That is what people usually do with their sweethearts," I answer, philosophically³. "Pray, Dirty, come in and be welcomed by the family."

 

"Wipe your feet, Dirty," says my little boy.

 

The mother of my little boy does not think much of the match. She has even spoken of forbidding Dirty the house.

 

"We can't do that," I say. "I am not in ecstasies⁴ over it either, but it is not at all certain that it will last."

 

"Yes, but . . ."

 

"Do you remember what little use it was when your mother forbade me the house? We used to meet in the most incredible places and kiss each other terribly. I can quite understand that you have forgotten, but you ought to bear it in mind now that your son's beginning. And you ought to value the loyalty⁵ of his behaviour towards his aged

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