"
"Anyhow," I said, severely, "it's a mean trick to want to damage
anyone, just because he's pleased with himself when he's got a right
to be."
"Well, yes--I'll give you thirty."
"Can't play. I'm going to finish this novel, BILL."
"Is that one of the books you write about in the papers?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to praise it, or cut it up?"
"I'm going to give it such a--well, no, on second thoughts, I believe
I'm going to praise it." And I did.
* * * * *
LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.
NO. III.--TO POMPOSITY.
MY DEAR POMPOSITY,
It was only yesterday that I dined with BULMER, the wealthy brewer,
in his magnificent mansion in the neighbourhood (I dare not be more
precise) of Belgrave Square. You know as well as I do that BULMER's
origin, though it may not have been humble, was certainly obscure.
Nobody quite knows how he first managed to become a partner in the
great concern which he now entirely controls. Fifteen years ago few
people ever heard of or drank the "Pellucid Ale" without which no
tap-room and few middle-class luncheon tables can now be considered
complete. Suddenly, however, column upon column of the daily press
overflowed, as it were, with those two magic words; analytical
chemists investigated the properties of the beverage, and one and
all pronounced it in highly technical language to contain more
bone-forming and sinew-developing elements than any other known
beer.
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