He had come to his office early, not merely because at his boarding place they breakfasted betimes, but because he believed that early hours were one way of winning success.  He was a little puzzled what to do with himself.  He sat down at his desk and thrummed it for a minute.  Then he rose, and spread his books more along the shelf, so as to leave little spaces between them, thinking that he could make them look more imposing thereby.  After that he took down a book—­somebody “On Torts,”—­and dug into it.  In the Harvard course, he had had two hours a week of this book, but Peter worked over it for nearly three hours.  Then he took paper, and in a very clear, beautifully neat hand, made an abstract of what he had read.  Then he compared his abstract with the book.  Returning the book to the shelf, very much pleased with the accuracy of his memory, he looked at his watch.  It was but half-past eleven.  Peter sat down at his desk.  “Would all the days go like this?” he asked himself.  He had got through the first week by his room and office-seeking and furnishing.  But now?  He could not read law for more than four hours a day, and get anything from it.  What was to be done with the rest of the time?  What could he do to keep himself from thinking of—­from thinking?  He looked out of his one window, over the dreary stretch of roofs and the drearier light shafts spoken of flatteringly as yards.  He compressed his lips, and resorted once more to his book.  But he found his mind wandering, and realized that he had done all he was equal to on a hot July morning.  Again he looked out over the roofs.  Then he rose and stood in the middle at his room, thinking.  He looked at his watch again, to make sure that he was right.  Then he opened his door and glanced about the hall.  It was one blank, except for the doors.  He went down the two flights of stairs to the street.  Even that had the deserted look of summer.  He turned and went back to his room.  Sitting down once more at his desk, and opening somebody “On Torts” again, he took up his pen and began to copy the pages literally.  He wrote steadily for a time, then with pauses.  Finally, the hand ceased to follow the lines, and became straggly.  Then he ceased to write.  The words blurred, the paper faded from view, and all Peter saw was a pair of slate-colored eyes.  He laid his head down on the blotter, and the erect, firm figure relaxed.

There is no more terrible ordeal of courage than passive waiting.  Most of us can be brave with something to do, but to be brave for months, for years, with nothing to be done and without hope of the future!  So it was in Peter’s case.  It was waiting—­waiting—­for what?  If clients came, if fame came, if every form of success came,—­for what?

There is nothing in loneliness to equal the loneliness of a big city.  About him, so crowded and compressed together as to risk life and health, were a million people.  Yet not a soul of that million knew that Peter sat at his desk, with his head on his blotter, immovable, from noon one day till daylight of the next.