"I should like to ask your pardon for all the pain this has caused you, but it's hard to apologize for having tried desperately to tell the truth. Feeling as your silence tells me you do about it, it must be better for both of us that Isadore's coming forced an explanation, forced us to an understanding--in time. I trust you, Yetta, to see clearly--perhaps not now, but sometime--how I tried above all things to be fair and honest to you. I wanted your love. You must never think I was pretending about that, Yetta darling. There is nothing I want more at this moment. And, although you will not agree with me--and may be right--I thought we could win together to a happy, useful life. I still think we might if you did not feel about such things as you do. "But after all, it doesn't matter much what I think. You're a woman. You've lived long enough to make your own choice, to formulate for yourself the demands you will present to the Great Employer--Life. "I don't feel that you are asking too much--I don't believe we can do that. I won't admit that you are asking more than I. But I doubt if you are asking wisely--for the Real Thing. Yet, for years on end, I made the same demand. Perhaps it is my defeat which has changed me from a romanticist to a realist. Nowadays I prefer something real to any Dream. "But you must make your choice according to your present lights. I can't ask you to accept my experience. And more deeply--more devoutly--than I wish for anything else, I hope that your Dream may lead your feet into pleasant paths--to the Happy Valley. "Once my pen is started, I could write on and on to you. But this desire to commune with you is not what you think love should be, so it would be of no comfort. After all, there is nothing more for me to say. It was my business to make you see the choice clearly. You did, I think. And you made it bravely. So I must say Good-by. "I'm leaving in half an hour for Boston, and I will sail from there in a few days. The Fates have arranged a haven for me in Oxford. It is not what I would like most in the world, but it will do. Better chance to you. "WALTER." Very little of this letter reached Yetta's consciousness. The import of all these phrases was that he had gone. So there was not any hope. If Walter had loved her--in anything like the way she meant--he would not have gone. Yetta had not cried very much, even as a little girl. Now, it seemed to her that, having lost control of her tears, she had lost everything. She wilted on to the bed, burying her face in the pillow to hide the shame of her sobs.