THE TWO LETTERS.
I had as usual two letters to write. There are always two and often twenty, but this morning there were two only. One was to my old friend, A., who had just gone into bankruptcy; the other was to my young friend, B., whose sporting efforts in France have won him very rapid promotion. He was just bringing his new captain's stars to England on a few days' leave.
A. is a somewhat austere and melancholy man; B. is just as different as you can imagine.
I wrote thus. First to A.:—
"MY DEAR MAN,—I am sorry to hear your bad news. The times are sufficiently depressing without such a blow as this having to fall on you. I am certain that you don't deserve such treatment, and you have all my sympathy. As for the disgrace—there is none. You are simply a victim of the War. If there is anything I can do to cheer you up, let me know.
"I am, yours, etc.,—."
To B. I wrote thus:—
"DEAR OLD TOP,—This is the best news I have heard for a long time. I always knew you would bring it off soon; but I wasn't prepared for anything quite so sudden. There is, of course, only one thing to do when a man fulfils his destiny in this way. The custom is immemorial, and, war or no war, we must crack a bottle. Tell me where you would like to dine, and when, and I'll fix it up, and some jolly show afterwards. Occasions like This must be celebrated.
"I am, yours, etc.,—."
So far it is a somewhat feeble narrative, nor has it any point beyond the circumstance that I posted the letters in the wrong envelopes.