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 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.

“Good old fish!” we cry, ecstatic.  “Meet you at the corner of Tenth and Chestnut in five minutes.”

We tear up the unfinished letter.  Bill will never know how much we love him.  Perhaps it is just as well.  It is very embarrassing to have your friends know how you feel about them.  When we meet him we will be a little bit on our guard.  It would not be well to be betrayed into any extravagance of cordiality.