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London, W. 1
May 1
Dear Roger,
I always sensed you were a despicable, smooth-talking gold-digger--but I
didn't really convince myself of it until I read your letter. Do you
really expect me to believe that story? An anti-gravity belt! What do
you take me for--one of your silly impressionable American women?
Besides, I happen to have met your Professor Phelps-Smythe Burdinghaugh
in London, only a few days ago, and he assured me that, while he _had_
met you in New York, it was under very different circumstances from
those you described. He said you were with two women and that all three
of you were quite drunk. He also said he had never invented an
anti-gravity belt and seemed rather amused at the idea.
Needless to say, he was surprised to learn that I was your fiancee. He
was under the impression that you were engaged to some American girl, he
said, but he couldn't tell _which_ one. That was the last straw.
This is the end, Roger. Our engagement is broken. I bear you no ill
will--indeed, I'm glad it's all over. The one thing I'm furious about is
the way you maligned the Professor, trying to make me think _he_ was
responsible for your not writing. How perfectly ridiculous!
Really, Roger, you would do well to model yourself after the Professor.
He is so charming, so cultured, so thoughtful! I'll never forgive you
for trying to blame him for your own shortcomings.