Now the book is finished, so far as I shall finish it. There is,
my friend, but this one page to write. And, more than probably,
this is the page of all the book that I shall never wish to blot.
Increasing wisdom or, at any rate, experience will make me frown,
I promise you, some time or other at a large proportion of the
pages of this volume. But when I look upon your name I hear a
troop of memories, and in their singing is my happiness.

When you receive this book, presuming that the Russian Censor
does not shield you from it, I have some idea what you will do.
The string, of course, must not be cut, and you will seriously
set about the disentangling of it. One hand assists by holding
up, now near the nose now farther off, your glasses; the other
hand pecks at the string. After, say, twenty minutes there will
enter the admirable Miss Fox--oh! the tea she used to make for us
when we were freezing on the mountains of Bulgaria, what time our
Chicagoan millionaire was ruffled and Milyukov, the adventurous
professor, standing now not far from Russia's helm, would always
drive ahead of us and say, with princely gesture, that if we
suffered from the dust it was advisable that he should be the one
to meet the fury of the local lions. But do not let us lose the
scent: Miss Fox, that woman of resource, will cut the string. And
later on, while to her you are dictating things political and
while your other secretary is discoursing music, mournful Russian
music, then with many wrinkles on your brow you will hold the
book at arm's length.

"The Serbonian Bog," says Miss Fox, repeating the last lines of
the dictation.