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He was not
fooling himself as to what lay before him. He was not callous to the
sufferings already endured. But he put them, past, and to come, from him
for one evening, and sat smoking lazily with a dreamy look on his face.
He had lately been studying the subject of Asiatic cholera, but he did
not seem to be thinking of that. He had just been through what he called
a "revolting experience," but it is doubtful if he was thinking of that.
Whatever his thoughts were, they put a very different look on his face
than that which it used to wear while he studied blank walls.
When Peter sat down, rather later than usual at his office desk the next
morning, he took a sheet of paper, and wrote, "Dear sir," upon it. Then
he tore it up. He took another and wrote, "My dear Mr. D'Alloi." He tore
that up. Another he began, "Dear Watts." A moment later it was in the
paper basket. "My dear friend," served to bring a similar fate to the
fourth. Then Peter rose and strolled about his office aimlessly.


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