He wrote them—all the business letters he could think of, concentrating his thoughts as much as possible. Afterward he lay down on the lounge with a book, and remained there for an hour, although he changed books every few minutes. This was becoming a bad habit. But it was difficult reading although it ranged from Kipling to the Book of Common Prayer; and at last he gave it up and, turning over buried his head in the cushions.
This wouldn't do either: he racked his brain for further employment, found excuses for other business letters, wrote them, then attacked a pile of social matters—notes and letters heretofore deliberately neglected to the ragged edge of decency.
He replied to them all, and invariably in the negative.
It gave him something to do to go out to the nearest lamp post and mail his letters. But when again he came back into his room the silence there left him hesitating on his threshold.
But he went in and locked his door, and kept his back turned to the desk where pen and ink were tempting him as usual, and almost beyond endurance now. And at last he weakened, and wrote to her once more:
"My dear Mrs. Leeds—
"I feel sure that your failure to answer my note of last week was unintentional.
"Some day, when you have a moment, would you write me a line saying that you will be at home to me?
"Very sincerely yours,
"Richard Stanley Quarren."
He took this note to the nearest District Messenger Office; then returned to his room.
After an interminable time the messenger reported for the signature. Mrs. Leeds was not at home and he had left the note as directed.