In spite of his remarks to Asaph, he had not "turned in" so early after all.
If the captain expected a prompt reply to his note he was disappointed.
A week passed and he heard nothing.

Then three more days and still no word from the New Hampshire widow.

Meanwhile fresh layers of dust spread themselves over the Whittaker furniture, and the gaudy patterns of the carpets blushed dimly beneath a grimy fog.

The situation was desperate; even Matilda Tripp, Come-Outer sermons and all, began to be thinkable as a possibility.
The eleventh day began with a pouring rain that changed, later on, to a dismal drizzle.

The silver-leaf tree in the front yard dripped, and the overflowing gutters gurgled and splashed.