It was almost noon before his troubles commenced again. Then like a
raging hot tide, the pain began in the soft, fleshy soles of his feet
and mounted up inch by inch through the calves of his legs, through
his aching thighs, through his tortured back, through his cringing
neck, till the whole reeking misery seemed to foam and froth in his
brain in an utter frenzy of furious resentment. Again the day dragged
by with maddening monotony and loneliness. Again the clock mocked him,
and the postman shirked him, and the janitor forgot him. Again the
big, black night came crowding down and stung him and smothered him
into a countless number of new torments.

Again the treacherous Morning Nap wiped out all traces of the pain and
left the doctor still mercilessly obdurate on the subject of an
opiate.

And Cornelia did not write.

Not till the fifth day did a brief little Southern note arrive
informing him of the ordinary vital truths concerning a comfortable
journey, and expressing a chaste hope that he would not forget her.
Not even surprise, not even curiosity, tempted Stanton to wade twice
through the fashionable, angular handwriting. Dully impersonal, bleak
as the shadow of a brown leaf across a block of gray granite,
plainly--unforgivably--written with ink and ink only, the stupid,
loveless page slipped through his fingers to the floor.

After the long waiting and the fretful impatience of the past few days
there were only two plausible ways in which to treat such a letter.
One way was with anger. One way was with amusement. With conscientious
effort Stanton finally summoned a real smile to his lips.