nly, it would dare to
show its ugly head. So instead of feeling sorry for myself, I began to
feel sorry for my Diddums, even though he was trying to switch me off
like an electric-light. And all of a sudden I came to a decision.

I decided to write to Dinky-Dunk. That, I felt, would be safer than
trying to see him. For in a letter I could say what I wanted to
without being stopped or side-tracked. There would be no danger of
accusations and recriminations, of anger leading to extremes, of
injured pride standing in the path of honesty. It would be better than
talking. And what was more, it could be done at once, for the
mysterious impression that time was precious, that something ominous
was in the air, had taken hold of me.

So I wrote to Dinky-Dunk. I did it on two crazy-looking pages torn out
of the back of his old ranch ledger. I did it without giving much
thought to precisely what I said or exactly how I phrased it,
depending on my heart more than my brain to guide me in the way I
should go. For I knew, in the marrow of my bones, that it was my last
shot, my forlornest ultimatum, since in it went packed the last shred
of my pride.

"Dear Dinky-Dunk," I wrote, "I hardly know how to begin, but I surely
don't need to begin by saying we haven't been hitting it off very well
of late. We seem to have made rather a mess of things, and I suppose
it's partly my fault, and the fault of that stupid pride which keeps us
tongue-tied when we should be honest and open with each other. But I've
been feeling lately that we're both skirting a cut-bank with our eyes
blindfolded, and I've faced an incident, trivial in itself but
momentous in its possibilities, which persuades me that things can't go
on as they are. There's too much at stake to let either ruffled nerves
or false modesty--or whatever you want to call it--come between you and
the very unhappy woman who still is your wife. It's time, I think, when
we both ought to look everything squarely in the face, for, after all,
we've only one life to live, and if you're happy, at this moment, if
you're completely and tranquilly happy as I write this, then I've
banked wrong, tragically wrong, on what I thought you were. For I
_have_ banked on you, Dinky-Dunk, banked about all my life and
happiness--and it's too late to change, even if I wanted to. I'm alone
in the world, and in a lonely part of the world, with three small
children to look after, and that as much as anything, I supp