and he walked up to the window again. It was just such weather as yesterday.
"Oh, this confounded rain!" he muttered. But after studiously regarding it for a minute or two, a bright idea seemed to strike him, for he suddenly exclaimed, "But I know what I'll do!" and then returned and took his seat at the table. The letter-bag was already there, waiting to be opened. He unlocked it and examined the contents, but said nothing about them.
"Is there anything for me?" I asked.
"No."
He opened the newspaper and began to read.
"You'd better take your coffee," suggested I; "it will be cold again."
"You may go," said he, "if you've done. I don't want you."
I rose, and withdrew to the next room, wondering if we were to have another such miserable day as yesterday, and wishing intensely for an end of these mutually inflicted torments.
