died and he is annoyed because he wasn't invited to the funeral. Ought
we to wire him? No, because after all we are not dead, and even if he
thinks we are, his subsequent relief at hearing the good news of our
survival will outweigh his bitterness during the interval. One of these
days we will write him a letter that will really express our heart,
filled with all the grindings and gear-work of our mind, rich in
affection and fallacy. But we had better let it ripen and mellow for a
while. Letters, like wines, accumulate bright fumes and bubblings if
kept under cork.

Presently we turn over that pile of letters again. We find in the lees
of the heap two or three that have gone for six months and can safely be
destroyed. Bill is still on our mind, but in a pleasant, dreamy kind of
way. He does not ache or twinge us as he did a month ago. It is fine to
have old friends like 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