XXIII
ACK in his room Gordon dropped into a chair under the light and pulled the crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. Tenderly he smoothed it out, and then, tossing away his cigar and pressing his lips to the letter, he read what she had written.
I wonder if you will be glad to get this. hope so. If I was sure you wouldn't be I would ever send it. Perhaps I shan't after all. Things one writes at night look so different in the morning. But now it seems easy to tell you what I want to, easy to acknowledge defeat. For I am defeated, utterly, dear. If I only knew whether you still care it would be so much easier to write this. Sometimes I think you do, know that you do. And then the doubts come and I'm too tired and sick at heart to repel them. If you don't care any more please, please read no further than this. Tear it up and forget what you've read. Won't you promise this now, before you go on?
It seemed so easy—if what is easy can be the hardest thing in life!—such a fine, courageous thing to say no before and go away from you. I meant it all then, or part of me did; my heart
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