But as the day passed, Edwin began to ask himself: "Has he had the
letter?" There was no sign of the letter in his father's demeanour,
which, while not such as to make it credible that he ever had moods of
positive gay roguishness, was almost tolerable, considering his headache
and his nausea. Letters occasionally were lost in the post, or delayed.
Edwin thought it would be just his usual bad luck if that particular
letter, that letter of all letters, should be lost. And the strange
thing is that he could not prevent himself from hoping that it indeed
was lost. He would prefer it to be lost rather than delayed. He felt
that if the postman brought it by the afternoon delivery while he and
his father were in the shop together, he should drop down dead. The day
continued to pass, and did pass. And the shop was closed. "He'll speak
to me after supper," said Edwin. But Darius did not speak to him after
supper. Darius put on his hat and overcoat and went out, saying no word
except to advise the children to be getting to bed, all of them.
As soon as he was gone Edwin took a candle and returned to the shop. He
was convinced now that the letter had not been delivered, but he wished
to make conviction sure. He opened the desk. His letter was nearly the
first document he saw. It looked affrighting, awful. He dared not read
it, to see whether its wording was fortunate or unfortunate. He
departed, mystified. Upstairs in his bedroom he had a new copy of an
English translation of Victor Hugo's "Notre Dame," which had been
ordered by Lawyer Lawton, but would not be called for till the following
week, because Lawyer Lawton only called once a fortnight. He had meant
to read that book, with due precautions, in bed. But he could not fix
attention on it. Impossible for him to follow a single paragraph. He
extinguished the candle. Then he heard his father come home. He
thought that he scarcely slept all night.
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