He determined, as the day wore on, to write to Alice. Sitting down before his desk, he tried to compose a letter. It was a difficult matter, he soon discovered, to compose a letter—the first—to a girl with whom he was in love, a girl whom, at the same time, he scarcely knew. Dear Miss Blake, he began; after a moment of perturbed reflection he drew his pen through these words. Dear lady; too formal. Dear friend; how absurd! She might even deny this. Dear stranger; more absurd still. Finally, he decided to begin his letter without any address at all, and now he found that he could write it quite easily.
You have frightened me, his pen traced. I know nobody in New York. Absolutely nobody. I haven't had time to tell you my story, and so you will not understand, but I cannot hope ever to be formally introduced to you. Couldn't you, in some way, explain to your father? I do so want to see you, to know you. We have met under such strange circumstances that there has been no opportunity for a quiet talk. Can't you arrange something? Please do. I must see you. I eagerly await your reply.
He gave the letter to Drains to post, but immediately after Drains had departed on this mission, he felt the need of going out himself. A novel restlessness had beseiged him. Drawing on his rain-coat, he left the house. Without being particularly conscious of where he was walking,
