ke that and keep in touch with them. We wonder how he
is and whether he has two children or three. Splendid old Bill!

By this time we have written Bill several letters in imagination and
enjoyed doing so, but the matter of sending him an actual letter has
begun to pall. The thought no longer has the savor and vivid sparkle it
had once. When one feels like that it is unwise to write. Letters should
be spontaneous outpourings: they should never be undertaken merely from
a sense of duty. We know that Bill wouldn't want to get a letter that
was dictated by a feeling of obligation.

Another fortnight or so elapsing, it occurs to us that we have entirely
forgotten what Bill said to us in that letter. We take it out and con it
over. Delightful fellow! It is full of his own felicitous kinks of whim,
though some of it sounds a little old-fashioned by now. It seems a bit
stale, has lost some of its freshness and surprise. Better not answer it
just yet, for Christmas will soon be here and we shall have to write
then anyway. We wonder, can Bill hold out until Christmas without a
letter?

We have been rereading some of those imaginary letters to Bill that have
been dancing in our head. They are full of all sorts of fine stuff. If
Bill ever gets them he will know how we love him. To use O. Henry's
immortal joke, we have days of Damon and Knights of Pythias writing
those uninked letters to Bill. A curious thought has come to us. Perhaps
it would be better if we never saw Bill again. It is very difficult to
talk to a man when you like him so much. It is much easier to write in
the sweet fantastic strain. We are so inarticulate when face to face. If
Bill comes to town we will leave word that we have gone away. Good old
Bill! He will always be a precious memory.

A few days later a sudden frenzy sweeps over us, and though we have many
pressing matters on hand, we mobilize pen and paper and literary shock
troops and prepare to hurl several battalions at Bill. But, strangely
enough, our utterance seems stilted and stiff. We have nothing to say.
_My dear Bill_, we begin, _it seems a long time since we heard from you.
Why don't you write? We still love you, in spite of all your
shortcomings_.

That doesn't seem very cordial. We muse over the pen and nothing comes.
Bursting with affection, we are unable to say a word.

Just then the phone rings. "Hello?" we say.

It is Bill, come to town unexpectedly.

"Good old fish!" we cry, ecsta