On the morrow, however, at an early hour, he found occasion to give an answer more in consonance with the facts. What was the matter had continued to be so all the previous evening, the first hours of which, after dinner, in his room, he had devoted to the copious composition of a letter. He had quitted Waymarsh for this purpose, leaving him to his own resources with less ceremony than their wont, but finally coming down again with his letter unconcluded and going forth into the streets without enquiry for his comrade. He had taken a long vague walk, and one o’clock had struck before his return and his re-ascent to his room by the aid of the glimmering candle-end left for him on the shelf outside the porter’s lodge. He had possessed himself, on closing his door, of the numerous loose sheets of his unfinished composition, and then, without reading them over, had torn them into small pieces. He had thereupon slept—as if it had been in some measure thanks to that sacrifice—the sleep of the just, and had prolonged his rest considerably beyond his custom. Thus it was that when, between nine and ten, the tap of the knob of a walking-stick sounded on his door, he had not yet made himself altogether presentable. Chad Newsome’s bright deep voice determined quickly enough none the less the admission of the visitor. The little blue paper of the evening before, plainly an object the more precious for its escape from premature destruction, now lay on the sill of the open window, smoothed out afresh and kept from blowing away by the superincumbent weight of his watch. Chad, looking about with careless and competent criticism, as he looked wherever he went immediately espied it and permitted himself to fix it for a moment rather hard. After which he turned his eyes to his host. “It has come then at last?” Strether paused in the act of pinning his necktie. “Then you know—? You’ve had one too?” “No, I’ve had nothing, and I only know what I see. I see that thing and I guess. Well,” he added, “it comes as pat as in a play, for I’ve precisely turned up this morning—as I would have done yesterday, but it was impossible—to take you.” “To take me?” Strether had turned again to his glass. “Back, at last, as I promised. I’m ready—I’ve really been ready this month. I’ve only been waiting for you—as was perfectly right. But you’re better now; you’re safe—I see that for myself; you’ve got all your good. You’re looking, this morning, as fit as a flea.”