At the finish of the luncheon the painter, who had been meditative,
suddenly raised his glass.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, with solemnity, "I beg to move
that father be and hereby is a brick."
"Carried nem. con.," said the eldest son.
"Loud cheers!" said the more pert of the twins.
And Mr. Alpha was enchanted with his home and his home-life.
III
That luncheon was the latest and the most profound of a long series of
impressions which had been influencing my mental attitude towards the
excellent, the successful, the entirely agreeable Mr. Alpha. I walked
home, a distance of some three miles, and then I walked another three
miles or so on the worn carpet of my study, and at last the cup of my
feelings began to run over, and I sat down and wrote a letter to my
friend Alpha. The letter was thus couched:
"My Dear Alpha,
"I have long wanted to tell you something, and now I have decided to
give vent to my desire. There are two ways of telling you. I might
take the circuitous route by roundabout and gentle phrases, through
hints and delicately undulating suggestions, and beneath the soft
shadow of flattering cajoleries. Or I might dash straight ahead.
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