And it seemed to Laurie
as if this would be final indeed....
* * * * *
So he sat this evening, within forty-eight hours of the crisis,
thinking steadily. Half a dozen times, perhaps, the thought of Maggie
recurred to him; but he was learning how to get rid of that.
Then he took up the note and opened it. It was filled with four pages
of writing. He turned to the end and read the signature. Then he
turned back and read the whole letter.
* * * * *
It was very quiet as he sat there thinking over what he had read. The
noise of Fleet Street came up here only as the soothing murmur of the
sea upon a beach; and he himself sat motionless, the firelight falling
upwards upon his young face, his eyes, and his curly hair. About him
stood his familiar furniture, the grand piano a pool of glimmering
dark wood in the background, the tall curtained windows suggestive of
shelter and warmth and protection.
Yet, if he had but known it, he was making an enormous choice. The
letter was from the man he had met at midday, and he was deciding how
to answer it. He was soothed and quieted by his loneliness, and his
irritation had disappeared: he regarded the letter from a youthfully
philosophical standpoint, pleased with his moderation, as the work of
a fanatic; he was considering only whether he would yield, for
politeness' sake, to the importunity, or answer shortly and
decisively.
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