It was the 19th of December. Clifford was sitting in his study at "Falun" when the letters were brought to him. He did not look up from his work. The postman could bring him nothing that he cared to have that day; for he had already heard from Alan, who was still at school; he knew that all was well with the boy, and that he would be home for the holidays on the 21st.
For nearly four months he had waited and longed for a letter from Katharine. But now he had given up hoping. He believed that he had alienated her by his merciless outspokenness up at Peer Gynt's stue; not at the moment, for he remembered the ring in her voice and the expression on her face when she said, "Judge you—judge you," but later, when, quietly by herself, in her own surroundings, away from him, she was able to think things out and measure them. She had judged him—and left him. He suffered. He dared not attempt to approach her. He had told her all—and her answer was silence. He haunted Westminster and Stangate; but he never met her once. He walked up and down Westminster Bridge, knowing that if he did see her in the distance, he would be constrained to turn away. For he had told her all; and since her answer was silence, he had no right to force himself on her.
"Love has passed me by," he said to himself sadly.
He made no accusation on life.
"I was not worthy of it," he said.
"I had to tell her all," he said. "I had to lay it all before her."
"Love was so near to me," he said. "I almost reached it. And now I have to pass on alone."
He went two or three times during the term to see Alan. Alan was well and happy. But he was disappointed that Katharine had not been to see him.
"She promised, father," he said. "And I've looked for her week after week. But I believe that she will still come."