However, he could not wander up and down the glittering solitude of
his extensive suite for ever. Something must be done. Then he had
the notion of writing to Nellie; he had promised himself to write her
daily; moreover, it would pass the time and perhaps help him to some
resolution.
He sat down to a delicate Louis XVI. desk, on which lay a Bible, a
Peerage, a telephone-book, a telephone, a lamp and much distinguished
stationery. Between the tasselled folds of plushy curtains that
pleated themselves with the grandeur of painted curtains in a theatre,
he glanced out at the lights of Devonshire Square, from which not a
sound came. Then he lit the lamp and unscrewed his fountain-pen.
"My dear wife--"
That was how he always began, whether in storm or sunshine. Nellie
always began, "My darling husband," but he was not a man to fling
"darlings" about. Few husbands in the Five Towns are. He thought
"darling," but he never wrote it, and he never said it, save
quizzingly.
After these three words the composition of the letter came to a pause.
What was he going to tell Nellie? He assuredly was not going to tell
her that he had engaged an unpriced suite at Wilkins's. He was not
going to mention Wilkins's. Then he intelligently perceived that the
note-paper and also the envelope mentioned Wilkins's in no ambiguous
manner.
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