"It's too long," he said, "most inartistic, but I won't re-write it. Contemptible ass! If she cares it won't matter. If she doesn't, it won't matter either."
And that was the letter that lay in the locked drawer for a week. And through that week the watching for the postman went on—went on. And the enquiries, mechanically.
And no answer came at all, to either of his letters. Had the Concierge deceived him? Had she really no address to which to send the letter?
"Are you sure that you posted the letter?"
"Altogether, monsieur," said the concierge, fingering the key of the drawer that held it.
And the hot ferment of Paris life seethed and fretted all around him. If Betty were at Long Barton—oh, the dewy gray grass in the warren—and the long shadows on the grass!
Three days more went by.
"You have posted the letter?"
"But yes, Monsieur. Be tranquil. Without doubt it was a letter that should exact time for the response."
It was on the fifth day that he met Mimi Chantal, the prettiest model on the left bank.