uffler round his neck and large,
bulging boots on his feet, comes and sits beside him. I perceive an
earnest young lady, probably a typist in search of extra culture, look
at him long and vacantly from over her copy of Emerson, and can almost
see her mind gradually collecting conclusions about him. The attendant,
too, as he asks for his paper, eyes him shrewdly and suspiciously, and
waits till the three halfpence are actually handed across under the
brass wire partition before giving him the penny stamp. These
circumstances may be incorrect, but I am absolutely clear as to Frank's
own attitude of mind. Honestly, he no longer minds in the very least
how people behave to him; he has got through all that kind of thing long
ago; he is not at all to be commiserated; it appears to him only of
importance to get the paper and to be able to write and post his letter
without interruption. For Frank has got on to that plane--(I know no
other word to use, though I dislike this one)--when these other things
simply do not matter. We all touch that plane sometimes, generally under
circumstances of a strong mental excitement, whether of pleasure or
pain, or even annoyance. A man with violent toothache, or who has just
become engaged to be married, really does not care what people think of
him. But Frank, for the present at least, has got here altogether,
though for quite different reasons. The letter he wrote on this occasion
is, at present, in my possession. It runs as follows. It is very short
and business-like:

"DEAR JACK,

"I want to tell you where I am--or, rather, where I can be got
at in case of need. I am down in East London for the present,
and one of the curates here knows where I'm living. (He was at
Eton with me.) His address is: The Rev. E. Parham-Carter, The
Eton Mission, Hackney Wick, London, N.E.

"The reason I'm writing is this: You remember Major Trustcott
and Gertie, don't you? Well, I haven't succeeded in getting
Gertie back to her people yet, and the worst of it is that the
Major knows that there's something up, and, of course, puts the
worst possible construction upon it. Parham-Carter knows all
about it, too--I've just left a note on him, with instructions.
Now I don't quite know what'll happen, but in case anything
does happen which prevents my going on at Gertie, I want you to
come and do what you can. Parham-Carter will write to you