I repeat
that you are the worst sort of scoundrel. Your family mourns you, and
every member of it says what an angel of a father you were. But you
were a scoundrel all the same. And at heart every member of the family
knows it and admits it. Which is rather distressing. And there are
thousands just like you, Alpha. Yes, even in England there are tens of
thousands just like you....
"But you aren't dead yet. I was only asking you to conceive that you
were.
"Believe me, my dear Alpha,
"Yours affectionately."
A long and violent epistle perhaps. You inquire in what spirit Alpha
received it. The truth is, he never did receive it.
IV
You naturally assume that before the letter could reach him Alpha had
been mortally struck down by apoplexy, double pneumonia, bullet,
automobile, or some such enemy of joy, and that all the dreadful
things which I had foreseen might happen did in fact happen, thus
proving once more what a very wise friend I was, and filling me with
justifiable pride in my grief. But it was not so. Alpha was not struck
down, nor did his agreeable house topple over the metaphorical
precipice. According to poetical justice he ought to have been struck
down, just to serve him right, and as a warning to others--only he was
not.
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