CHAPTER X
Howard Stanton stood by his window in the early morning, looking for the first flakes of the first snow-storm. Outside the dull air waited and listened. A postman passed down the street, the blue of his uniform breaking the dingy red of the houses opposite. He walked swiftly. Few letters came to Wiggin Avenue.
As Howard gazed he was conscious for the first time of how many mornings he had stood there, waiting, like a girl, for a letter. This quickening of the pulses at the sight of the postman was not new. It was as old as that familiar, vague expectation of help somewhere from outside. There was nothing in the world that he wanted except that impossible letter from Anne, telling him that she had relented.
"I must be a hopeless idiot," he said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. He
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