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.