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A. V. Laider
By MAX BEERBOHM

I UNPACKED my things and went down to await luncheon.
It was good to be here again in this little old sleepy hostel by the sea.
Hostel I say, though it spelt itself without an "s" and even placed a
circumflex above the "o." It made no other pretension. It was very cozy
indeed.
I had been here just a year before, in mid-February, after an attack of
influenza. And now I had returned, after an attack of influenza. Nothing

was changed. It had been raining when I left, and the waiter-- there was
but a single, a very old waiter--had told me it was only a shower. That
waiter was still here, not a day older. And the shower had not ceased.
Steadfastly it fell on to the sands, steadfastly into the iron-gray sea. I
stood looking out at it from the windows of the hall, admiring it very
much. There seemed to be little else to do. What little there was I did. I
mastered the contents of a blue hand-bill which, pinned to the wall just
beneath the framed engraving of Queen Victoria's Coronation, gave
token of a concert that was to be held--or, rather, was to have been held
some weeks ago--in the town hall for the benefit of the Life-Boat Fund.
I looked at the barometer, tapped it, was not the wiser. I wandered to
the letter-board.
These letter-boards always fascinate me. Usually some two or three of
the envelops stuck into the cross-garterings have a certain newness and
freshness. They seem sure they will yet be claimed. Why not? Why
SHOULDN'T John Doe, Esq., or Mrs. Richard Roe turn up at any
moment? I do not know. I can only say that nothing in the world seems
to me more unlikely. Thus it is that these young bright envelops touch
my heart even more than do their dusty and sallowed seniors. Sour
resignation is less touching than impatience for what will not be, than
the eagerness that has to wane and wither. Soured beyond measure
these old envelops are. They are not nearly so nice as they should be to
the young ones. They lose no chance of sneering and discouraging.
Such dialogues as this are only too frequent:
A Very Young Envelop: Something in me whispers that he will come
to-day!
A Very Old Envelop: He? Well, that's good! Ha, ha, ha! Why didn't he
come last week, when YOU came? What reason have you for
supposing he'll ever come now? It isn't as if he were a frequenter of the
place. He's never been here. His name is utterly unknown here. You
don't suppose he's coming on the chance of finding YOU?
A. V. Y. E.: It may seem silly, but--something in me whispers--

A. V. O. E.: Something in YOU? One has only to look at you to see
there's nothing in you but a note scribbled to him by a cousin. Look at
ME! There are three sheets, closely written, in ME. The lady to whom I
am addressed--
A. V. Y. E.: Yes, sir, yes; you told me all about her yesterday.
A. V. O. E.: And I shall do so to-day and to-morrow and every day and
all day long. That young lady was a widow. She stayed here many
times. She was delicate, and the air suited her. She was poor, and the
tariff was just within her means. She was lonely, and had need of love.
I have in me for her a passionate avowal and strictly honorable
proposal, written to her, after many rough copies, by a gentleman who
had made her acquaintance under this very roof. He was rich, he was
charming, he was in the prime of life. He had asked if he might write to
her. She had flutteringly granted