then it
practically does not matter to whom she is married, she will soon
understand how to fulfil her destiny; or she is unsuited to matrimony,
in which case she commits a crime against her own personality when she
binds herself to any man."

Apparently, I was not meant for married life. Otherwise I should have
lived happily for ever and a day with you--and you know that was not the
case. But you are not to blame. I wish in my heart of hearts that I had
something to reproach you with--but I have nothing against you of any
sort or kind.

It was a great mistake--a cowardly act--to promise you yesterday that I
would return if I regretted my decision. I _know_ I shall never regret
it. But in making such a promise I am directly hindering you.... Forgive
me, dear friend ... but it is not impossible that you may some day meet
a woman who could become something to you. Will you let me take back my
promise? I shall be grateful to you. Then only can I feel myself really
free.

When you return home, stand firm if your friends overwhelm you with
questions and sympathy. I should be deeply humiliated if anyone--no
matter who--were to pry into the good and bad times we have shared
together. Bygones are bygones, and no one can actually realise what
takes place between two human beings, even when they have been
onlookers.

Think of me when you sit down to dinner. Henceforward eight o'clock will
probably be my bedtime. On the other hand I shall rise with the sun, or
perhaps earlier. Think of me, but do not write too often. I must first
settle down tranquilly to my new life. Later on, I shall enjoy writing
you a condensed account of all the follies which can be committed by a
woman who suddenly finds herself at a mature age complete mistress of
her actions.

Follow my advice, offered for the twentieth time: go on seeing your
friends; you cannot do without them. Really there is no need for you to
mourn for a year with crape on the chandeliers and immortelles around my
portrait.

You have been a kind, faithful, and delicate-minded friend to me, and I
am not so lacking in delicacy myself that I do not appreciate this in my
inmost heart. But I cannot accept your generous offer to give me money.
I now tell you this for the first time, because, had I said so before,
you would have done your best to over-persuade me. My small income is,
and will be, sufficient for my needs.

The train leaves in an hour. Richard, you have your business