Has no writer ever dealt with the dramatic aspect of the unopenedenvelope? I cannot recall such a passage in any of my authors, and yetto my mind there is much matter for philosophy in what is always theexpressionless shell of a boundless possibility. Your friend may runafter you in the street, and you know at a glance whether his news is tobe good, bad, or indifferent; but in his handwriting on thebreakfast-table there is never a hint as to the nature of hiscommunication. Whether he has sustained a loss or an addition to hisfamily, whether he wants you to dine with him at the club or to lend himten pounds, his handwriting at least will be the same, unless, indeed,he be offended, when he will generally indite your name with a studiousprecision and a distant grace quite foreign to his ordinary caligraphy.
These reflections, trite enough as I know, are nevertheless inevitableif one is to begin one's unheroic story in the modern manner, at thelatest possible point. That is clearly the point at which a waiterbrought me the fatal letter from Catherine Evers. Apart even from itsimmediate consequences, the letter had a prima facie interest, of noordinary kind, as the first for years from a once constantcorrespondent. And so I sat studying the envelope with a curiosity toopiquant not to be enjoyed. What in the world could so obsolete a friendfind to say to one now? Six months earlier there had been a certainopportunity for an advance, which at that time could not possibly havebeen misconstrued; when they landed me, a few later, there was anotherand perhaps a better one. But this was the last summer of the latecentury, and already I was beginning to get about like a lamplighter onmy two sticks. Now, young men about town, on two walking-sticks, in theyear of grace 1900, meant only one thing. Quite a stimulating thing inthe beginning, but even as I wr