He has not the courage to go forth into the street. He does not want to read, except as it shall ease him from the cruel torment which he feels.
The glasses jingle and chime. The stores across the street close their doors and darken their show windows. Why not go below and buy the latest novel?
The suggestion fairly sickens the man. He did not know he was so nervous. To read ror pastime while a great city is filled with his obsequies--he cannot do it!
There is but one course--to read the rules, to study the history of the door until it reaches the stage of suicide--ah! to feel in one's pockets! That is it! That is it!
David Lockwin cons his bank-book. He opens his worn letters---letters to the Hon. David Lockwin. He grows timid as he descends into the vale of despair.
Why did he do it? These details of the electoral campaign seem trivial now. Easy difficulties!
He reaches the last letter of the packet. Marvelous that he should wait to unseal it until an hour so fraught with need!
It is Esther's letter--probably some cold missive such as she wrote during their courtship and engagement.
David Lockwin is beginning to love his wife as a dog worships its master. He looks to her for safety. He wants to think of her as she is now--a sincere mourner for a dead friend, husband and protector; a superior being, capable of pity for David Lockwin.
"Is it wise to read it?" he asks in a dread. "But why should I not be generous? Why should I not love her--as I do love her? God forgive me! I do love her! I love her though she smite me now--cold, cold Esther!"