his lips, and resorted once more to his book. But he found his mind
wandering, and realized that he had done all he was equal to on a hot
July morning. Again he looked out over the roofs. Then he rose and stood
in the middle at his room, thinking. He looked at his watch again, to
make sure that he was right. Then he opened his door and glanced about
the hall. It was one blank, except for the doors. He went down the two
flights of stairs to the street. Even that had the deserted look of
summer. He turned and went back to his room. Sitting down once more at
his desk, and opening somebody "On Torts" again, he took up his pen and
began to copy the pages literally. He wrote steadily for a time, then
with pauses. Finally, the hand ceased to follow the lines, and became
straggly. Then he ceased to write. The words blurred, the paper faded
from view, and all Peter saw was a pair of slate-colored eyes. He laid
his head down on the blotter, and the erect, firm figure relaxed.

There is no more terrible ordeal of courage than passive waiting. Most
of us can be brave with something to do, but to be brave for months, for
years, with nothing to be done and without hope of the future! So it was
in Peter's case. It was waiting--waiting--for what? If clients came, if
fame came, if every form of success came,--for what?

There is nothing in loneliness to equal the loneliness of a big city.
About him, so crowded and compressed together as to risk life and
health, were a million people. Yet not a soul of that million knew that
Peter sat at his desk, with his head on his blotter, immovable, from
noon one day till daylight of the next.