A letter from Ricky.
I ripped it open and read it hungrily.
Dear:
Would you please, if you get a chance, go to the Lingerie Department at Saks and ask for Miss Drewson? Tell her I'd like to have three more slips like the blue satin ones I got last July when we were in town. I could order them by mail, but I want to be sure to get the same kind and she will know. Size twelve, which I guess I needn't tell you. We miss you—everything is just the same, which is dandy—and have fun. I love you very much.
Ricky
I had a second little beast to chase, then.
There was a bank statement.
There were four publicity releases from business concerns which keep sending me their bilge even though I took the pains, almost a year ago, to write them that I'd quit doing a newspaper column and had no way of airing their propaganda even if I felt the urge.
There were three letters from people who liked my books.
There was a letter from the assistant to the dean of a small college in Illinois:
Dear Wylie:
Just how does one go about getting so swellheaded and self-righteous that he thinks he can tell off everybody on earth? I would like to know, because it must be a wonderful sensation to balloon around so gassily. Look out for pins, though!
Please reply.
Sincerely,
John F. Casselberry.
I put the letter between my big toe and the next one, held it out at body length, and reflected.