Under a wide roof, in the midst of flowers, trees, sunshine, horses, dogs, meat, wine, wit, friendly faces and all good things, whither my affection had brought me at the invitation of yours, this violent story of the Pagan born to darkness, and progressing to the first glimmer of light, was written. But you must do me the further kindness to believe that it is with no thought of squaring accounts that I dedicate it to you. Except in the valvy heart, there is no squaring of accounts among friends; except in that lively organ, there is no bringing of the credits and debits of intercourse to an honest balance and a delicate.
It is my pleasure to owe you far more than I can pay ever. In dedicating this story, it may be that I am adding grossly to that debt. If so, I ask your most lenient consideration. If not, I still ask your consideration—not for the dedication of my Pagan, but for the affection with which he is dedicated. For I believe this: that without affection, the world, Pagan and Christian, would become like unto the tottering moon, “staple in desolation.”
G. M.