Waymarsh had always more or less the air of sitting at the door of his tent, and silence, after so many weeks, had come to play its part in their concert.

This note indeed, to Strether's sense, had lately taken a fuller tone, and it was his fancy to-night that they had never quite so drawn it out.
Yet it befell, none the less that he closed the door to confidence when his companion finally asked him if there were anything particular the matter with him.

"Nothing," he replied, "more than usual." On the morrow, however, at an early hour, he found occasion to give an answer more in consonance with the facts.

What was the matter had continued to be so all the previous evening, the first hours of which, after dinner, in his room, he had devoted to the copious composition of a letter.

He had quitted Waymarsh for this purpose, leaving him to his own resources with less ceremony than their wont, but finally coming down again with his letter unconcluded and going forth into the streets without enquiry for his comrade.