Harry and I dote on dope: _"'After the bat is over, After the last cent's spent, And the pigs have gone from the clover And the very last gent has went; After the cards are scattered, After I've paid the bill, Weary and rocky and battered I swallow my liver pill!_'" -- he sang, waltzing slowly around the room with Annan until, inadvertently, they stepped upon the tail of Gladys who went off like a pack of wet fire-crackers; whereupon they retired in confusion to their respective abodes above.
Evening came, and with evening, letters; but none from her.

And slowly the stealthy twilight hours dragged their heavy minutes toward darkness; and night crawled into the room like some sinister living thing, and found him still pacing the floor.
Through the dusky June silence far below in the street sounded the clatter of wheels; but they never stopped before his abode.

Voices rose faintly at moments in the still air, borne upward as from infinite depths; but her voice would never sound again for him: he knew it now--never again for him.

And yet he paced the floor, listening.

The pain in his heart grew duller at intervals, benumbed by the tension; but it always returned, sickening him, almost crazing him.
Late in the evening he gave way under the torture--turned coward, and started to write to her.