"I had to see how you would take it. I know it was great presumption on my part to hope for anything of the kind; it was most good of you to come."
"I wondered how long it would be before you thanked me."
"A thousand pardons. I see little society, of course. I am shy and awkward. I never say the right thing."
"But you are not shy and awkward. You are not at all what I expected. I have your second letter here. Listen. I leave out the part where you speak of your loneliness."
"There are few lives," said the young man, sorrowfully, "more solitary than that of a solicitor's clerk. You don't know." Nor, for that matter, did he.
"Then the letter goes on: 'If you could make it convenient to spare me a few moments of your valuable time—'"
"Did I really say that?"
"Of course you did. Here it is."
"These business forms ring in one's head. They get into one's blood. One uses them unconsciously and inelegantly."
"I will read on: 'If you could make it convenient to spare me a few moments of your valuable time I should like to have a go at telling you my story. Sympathy in my case has generally been conspicuous by its absence, but I think I could depend on the author of "The Strangers." I am rather a doleful sort, I am afraid, but I daresay you don't care for larking about any more than I do.'"