Next morning brought neither telegram nor letter. All day he stayed at home, fearing that, if he went out, something might arrive in his absence. Her silence drove him to distraction. Could it be that she was offended? Was she annoyed because he had put her into a book? Had she expected him to turn up at Euston for a final farewell? He must get some word to her. There were three ships, any one of which might be carrying her. He went out that evening and addressed a wireless message to her on each of them: “Thinking of you. Longing to hear from you. Love.” He felt very discomforted when the clerk, before accepting them, insisted on reading them over aloud. Again he hoped vainly that she might guess his suspense--perhaps gauge his by her own--and return a wireless. Nothing. The next three weeks were the longest in his memory. He became an expert on transatlantic sailings. Every day he covered several pages to her. He filled them with sketches; he put into them all the emotion and cleverness of which he was capable. He said all the tender and witty things he had intended to say to her when they met. He burlesqued his own shyness. He recalled happenings of the old farmhouse days which even he had all but forgotten. As an artist he knew that he was outdoing himself. His letters were masterpieces. He laughed and cried over some of the passages in the same breath. They couldn’t fail to move her. When three weeks had elapsed he began to look for an answer. None came. It was as though she mocked him, saying: “Come to America if you really care.” He grew hurt. For a month he tried the effect of not writing. Then he tried to forget her, and did his best to become absorbed in his work. But the old habits of industry had lost their attraction; every day was a gray emptiness. His quietness seemed irrecoverable. She haunted him. Sometimes the wind was in her hair and her face was turned from him. Sometimes her gray eyes watched him cloudily, and her warm red lips pouted with tender melancholy. He saw her advancing through the starlit streets of Glastonbury, walking proudly in her queen’s attire. He saw her in a thousand ways; every one was sweet, and every one was torturing. “This is love,” he told himself; “love which all the inspired people of the world have painted and described and sung.” The odd thing was that, much as it made him suffer, he would not have been without it. His mother noticed his restlessness and would have coaxed hi$ secret from him, but his lips were obstinately sealed. He could not bring himself to confess. He resorted to evasions which he felt to be unworthy. Gradually the determination grew up in him to go to America. He sought for an excuse that would disguise his real purpose. It came to him in a letter from a New York editor, offering prices, which sounded fabulous by English standards, for a series of illustrated reminiscences of childhood similar to those contained in _Life Till Twenty-one_.