"Good letter, Jack," said I.
"Yes," said he, tearing it up.
"Don't do that," I cried, trying to restrain him.
He smiled again and sighed. "It's—gone," said he. "Gone. Forever. I shall never write it again."
"You should have sent it to—to yourself," said I. "I have thought sometimes that such a letter should be written to you."
"Possibly," said he. "But—it's gone." And he tossed it into the waste-basket.
"It's a pity," said I. "You—you might have sold that."
"I know I might," said he. "But if it had ever appeared in print I should have been immortally mad. It's a libel on myself. Truth—is libellous, you know."
"It might have been rejected," I said, sarcastically.