I have given you all my love. I have not bartered it. I do not haggle over its value. Nor for my part would I hedge you about with restrictions, nor win your smiles on conditions--for willing comradeship sunk to dutiful loyalty is become a restriction. I ask for no paper treaties. I will fling you no Thou Shalt Nots. The written promise is the least part of a strong man’s honour. If a man or woman, or the shabby travesties of these, would find delight in adulteries, will the written bond or public proclamation of fidelity prevent their secret treacheries? I can no more stoop to jealousy of the world than of another woman, even if I were possessed of the mean insanity of jealousy, which is but a part of the village-idiot’s wits who sits in the winter and thinks to blow dead ashes into living fire if his rude breath be but harsh enough. Nor can I, on the other hand, live in your house as ‘one of three.’ If you and I and Apology essayed to live together, it could not last. I cannot embrace Apology with effusion; and I cannot brook to see you yield yourself to shabby excuses. I am not sure that I would not rather have you committing mean sins with a dairymaid. The pain with which my hand writes these lines it would be wanton cruelty to inflict upon you, Noll; yet I will tell you that since I collected a few belongings together into my poor weather-beaten trunk--indeed, I have never before realized how shabby a dowry I brought to you, dear heart (I have scarred the dear walls with as little brigandage as I might, so that they shall stare upon you with no eyeless sockets and be the less lonely home for you when I am gone)--since I have taken a last look round the rooms where I have known the best days of my life, as I sit waiting for the vehicle which is to take me out into the desert again, I find it hard to keep back the tears from blotting out my handwriting. Scalding tears, Noll; yet I have wept tears also that did not scald, happy tears--indeed, I have but this moment kissed the pillows of our marriage-bed.... But there are wheels that stop outside the courtyard gate. Just one more round of our old home amidst the stars, to touch the dear surrounding things I have loved so well--_we_ have loved so well--and I am gone. BETTY. P.S.--Ah, Noll; there are no flowers upon the balcony now! Not even a little one to take in remembrance that the balcony was once a garden.” There was a rustle of skirts on the landing without--a knock at the door. Betty uttered no sound. She thrust the letter into an envelope and sealed it. There was another knock, and a panting voice cried from without: “It is I, madame--Madelaine.” Betty went to the door and opened it. “Ah, Madelaine--you are back!” Madelaine, daintily dressed, and her slim being looking charming and refined, entered the room and shut the door.