The days of indecision, when worldly considerations were weighed in the balance with his growing love for Mary Blake, seemed far away, and almost inconceivable, so overwhelming had his passion become. Whatever her antecedents had been, whatever her past, he was ready now to face any future so long as it should be spent at her side. The trouble that threatened her, if trouble there was, would be as nothing to him, no matter what its nature, if he were allowed to share it. Every selfish thought was swept away in the great tide of emotion which buoyed him up and made him feel the master and ruler of circumstance. On the Sunday morning, as soon as convention would allow it, he had called Mary Blake on the telephone to beg for an immediate interview. She had answered him quietly but finally. She would not see him for the present. She made no explanation, gave no reasons, and in the midst of his protestations she had quietly cut off the connection, leaving him hurt, anxious, and apprehensive. These feelings had grown upon him during the morning to such an extent that before noon he had decided to brave her displeasure and attempt an interview. The pace of the swiftly moving cab that bore him southward seemed all too slow, so anxious had he become. Gone now was the feeling of invincibility of the early morning. A vague but almost unbearable sense of uneasiness and alarm pursued him, try as he would to reason it away. When he had climbed the three flights of stairs of the old apartment at Waverly Place, his fears were not allayed by the silence that followed his repeated knocking. Once he had called through the door: "Mary, Mary!" and in the stillness that ensued he had an uneasy sense of a presence near him, a feeling that there was someone inside the apartment, listening. He could never tell on what this assumption was based, for there had been no recognizable sound, and though he renewed his efforts, there had been no answer. Forced, at last, to abandon his attempt to see her, he left the apartment and wandered about the streets, in a frame of mind to which, in all his fortunate and successful life, he had been a stranger. Many times during the ensuing afternoon and evening he had attempted to get her apartment on the wire. The first report was that the line was busy and after that, each time he called, the operator made the same reply--"Party doesn't answer."--And Donald Morris spent the second sleepless night of all his healthy years.