Lewis got up hastily, leaving his letters where they were on the arm of the chair, and went out onto the piazza. The fog sucked up to him, enveloped him. He coughed, choked sharply. These Mount Desert fogs were like no others in the world, he thought, and for once, it occurred to him that he ought to possess himself of an automatic cigarette lighter: you couldn’t strike a match successfully out here in this insidious fog. But cigarette or not, he would not return to the warm fire-cheered room until Dick had done with that letter and put it away out of sight.
What would Dick do with the sheets when he had finished them, anyway? Lewis visualized him tossing them casually into the fire. Then he visualized himself putting his own bare hand into the fire and pulling them out! “Am I crazy?” he wondered. “What is there in her mere handwriting that stirs me more than the sight of Petra herself? It is the essence of her personality—as the voice is—only visible.” If Petra should ever write himself a letter—if such a day ever came—Lewis felt now that her handwriting on the envelope would produce as profound a feeling in him as would her first kiss. He coughed again. The fog hated him. Then Dick came to the door, shouting “Lewis! Oh, Lewis!”
“Oh! But I couldn’t see whether you were there or not, Lewis! This heathenish fog! But come along in, do. I’ve got to talk to you. Really!”
And back in the room, over by the fire, the men stood facing each other across Petra’s letter. For Dick had not tossed it in the fire. That had been only a daydream of Lewis’ tired, driven mind. The letter lay on a little table, under Dick’s palms, as he stood leaning on the table, looking down at it.
“See here,” he was saying, “I promised to lay off our morning’s discussion—Clare—Green Doors—all that. But something has happened.... This letter ... Petra has written.... Amazing.... It’s quite moving ... Sweet.... And I want you to read it. It may open your eyes to something. It has mine. You may thank me. What I didn’t get around to tell you this morning was that I had already done it—proposed to Petra. She turned me down but I wasn’t sure she meant it. Clare was sure she didn’t mean it. Anyway, I meant to try again when I got back. But now I see Clare was wrong. Petra did mean it. Will you read this?” Dick’s face was glowing with the sheer generosity of the thing he was doing. “Will you read it?” he asked again, for Lewis was looking at him strangely—blankly.