"My dear A.H.," ran the letter, "The floods are all over and all our pools are stocked. We shall have the best season we've ever had. There's a rod tired of hanging here for you. Come and flog the water for a week—only come at once. Yours—F.H. Townshend." My dear A.H. F.H. Townshend "That was the 18th of April—two years ago," said I. "You didn't go, sir." Of course I had not gone. Should I have forgotten Ballysheen if I had? That was the time we went to Algiers, and I glanced at Dandy. "You can go to bed, Moxon," said I, and therewith I sat down at my desk and pulled out a clean sheet of note-paper. "Good-night, sir." "Good-night," I answered, and I dipped my pen in the ink. "My dear F.H.," I wrote, "If the fishing is anything like it was two years ago, may I come over and hold a rod in your honor? My doctor tells me I want a change and I am beginning to believe him, accordingly when I happened on your letter of two years ago, I made up my mind to force your hospitality. If inconvenient don't hesitate to say so.—Yours, A.H. Bellairs. P.S.—Are there two old maiden ladies in Ballysheen of the name of Fennell?" My dear F.H. A.H. Bellairs When I had finished, I read it through. Could any man guess from that innocent little postscript, the mad errand I had in contemplation? I think I know now why women are such past-masters in the use of that particular form of letter writing. As a method of diplomacy, there is nothing to touch it. What you say in a postscript can have no possible significance to the man who reads it. Were it a matter of dignity alone, no one would admit to themselves that you had treated them with such scant courtesy. No—that postscript was the one bright spot in my letter, and therewith I sealed it up. When I came back to the fire, there was Dandy still staring at the leaping antics of the canary-colored flame. I sat down on the hearthrug and put one arm round his neck. "You can see that satin gown, too, can you?" said I. Dandy blinked his eyes. "And do you think she'll be
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