Saturday.
Dear Enemy:
You were so terribly gruff last night when I tried to thank you for
giving my boys such a wonderful day that I didn't have a chance to
express half of the appreciation I felt.
What on earth is the matter with you, Sandy? You used to be a tolerably
nice man--in spots, but these last three or four months you have only
been nice to other people, never to me. We have had from the first a
long series of misunderstandings and foolish contretemps, but after each
one we seemed to reach a solider basis of understanding, until I had
thought our friendship was on a pretty firm foundation, capable of
withstanding any reasonable shock.
And then came that unfortunate evening last June when you overheard some
foolish impolitenesses, which I did not in the slightest degree mean;
and from then on you faded into the distance. Really, I have felt
terribly bad about it, and have wanted to apologize, but your manner
has not been inviting of confidence. It isn't that I have any excuse or
explanation to offer; I haven't. You know how foolish and silly I am on
occasions, but you will just have to realize that though I'm flippant
and foolish and trivial on top, I am pretty solid inside; and you've got
to forgive the silly part. The Pendletons knew that long ago, or they
wouldn't have sent me up here. I have tried hard to pull off an honest
job, partly because I wanted to justify their judgment, partly because
I was really interested in giving the poor little kiddies their share of
happiness, but mostly, I actually believe, because I wanted to show
you that your first derogatory opinion of me was ill founded. Won't you
please expunge that unfortunate fifteen minutes at the porte-cochere
last June, and remember instead the fifteen hours I spent reading the
Kallikak Family?