the inn, had been already provided for. She had decided--if it proved
necessary to give her name, before Geoffrey joined her--to call herself
Mrs., instead of Miss, Silvester. A letter addressed to "Mrs.
Silvester" might be trusted to find its way to her without causing any
embarrassment. The doubt was not here. The doubt lay, as usual, between
two alternatives. Which course would it be wisest to take?--to inform
Anne, by that day's post, that an interval of forty-eight hours must
elapse before his father's recovery could be considered certain? Or
to wait till the interval was over, and be guided by the result?
Considering the alternatives in the cab, he decided that the wise course
was to temporize with Anne, by reporting matters as they then stood.

Arrived at the hotel, he sat down to write the letter--doubted--and tore
it up--doubted again--and began again--doubted once more--and tore
up the second letter--rose to his feet--and owned to himself (in
unprintable language) that he couldn't for the life of him decide which
was safest--to write or to wait.

In this difficulty, his healthy physical instincts sent him to healthy
physical remedies for relief. "My mind's in a muddle," said Geoffrey.
"I'll try a bath."

It was an elaborate bath, proceeding through many rooms, and combining
many postures and applications. He steamed. He plunged. He simmered. He
stood under a pipe, and received a cataract of cold water on his head.
He was laid on his back; he was laid on his stomach; he was respectfully
pounded and kneaded, from head to foot, by the knuckles of accomplished
practitioners. He came out of it all, sleek, clear rosy, beautiful. He
returned to the hotel, and took up the writing materials--and behold
the intolerable indecision seized him again, declining to be washed out!