But all the ordinary interests in life, all the things that busily and contentedly occupied his day, one only excepted, had become without savour.

A dozen times in the morning he would sit down to his piano, only to find that he could not think it worth while to make his hands produce these meaningless tinkling sounds, and he would jump up to read the paper over again, or watch for fresh headlines to appear on the boards of news-vendors in the street, and send out for any fresh edition.

Or he would walk round to his club and spend an hour reading the tape news and waiting for fresh slips to be pinned up.

But, through all the nightmare of suspense and slowly-dying hope, Sylvia remained real, and after he had received his daily report from the establishment where his mother was, with the invariable message that there was no marked change of any kind, and that it was useless for him to think of coming to see her, he would go off to Maidstone Crescent and spend the greater part of the day with the girl.
Once during this week he had received a note from Hermann, written at Munich, and on the same day she also had heard from him.

He had gone back to his regiment, which was mobilised, as a private, and was very busy with drill and duties.