He went to her wardrobe, looking at the vacant hooks, repeating:
"What am I to do?"
He went slowly back to the living-room to the desk by the lamp, where the hateful thing stared up at him.
"What am I to do?"
All at once he struck the desk with his fist and a cry burst from him:
"Dishonored—I'm dishonored!"
His head flushed hot, his breath came in short, panting rage. He struck the letter again and again, and then suddenly, frantically, began to rush back and forth, repeating:
"Dishonored—dishonored!"
All at once a moment of clarity came to him with a chill of ice. He stopped, went to the telephone and called up the Racquet Club, saying:
"Mr. De Gollyer to the 'phone."