In any case, he must surely write.

And ten to one his letter would be a lie.
What was to be expected of him but a lie?
Monday, Tuesday, and now Wednesday morning.

Hitherto not even a letter.
When it was clear that Elgar had disregarded his promise, and, for whatever reason, did not even seek to justify or excuse himself, there came upon Mallard a strong mood of scorn, which for some hours enabled him to act as though all his anxiety were at an end.

He set himself a piece of work; a flash of the familiar energy traversed his mind.

He believed that at length his degradation was over, and that, come what might, he could now face it sturdily.