Five minutes
to twelve
He dusted off the library table with his handkerchief , put one book discreetly on the back side of the table instead of in front , swept an untidy box of cigarettes into a drawer , and gathered up the fresh pile of wash from a chair and put it on the bed in his sleeping-room and shut the door hard . Then he gazed about with the air of a satisfied housekeeper . He lifted up a loudly ticking clock which would not go except lying on its face , and regarded it . Five minutes to twelve , and they were sure to be late . He extracted a cigarette from the drawer and lighted it ; his thoughts , loosened from immediate pressure , came back slowly , surely , to the empty mailbox , his last letter , the girl whom he knew grotesquely as `` August First . '' Why had she not written for four weeks ? He had considered that question from many angles for about three weeks , and the question rose and confronted him , always new , at each leisure moment .