Since he asked her no questions, she hastened to explain: "I want to
rest absolutely. Not even to write letters. You need not bother to,
either. Anne will let me know if I am needed. And if I need anything,
you will be sure to hear."

"Oh, sure." Sam was recovering.

But he couldn't think she would really go, in that way at least. He
thought he knew one good reason why not. Yet, vaguely on guard against
her capacity for surprise, he did not risk the satire of asking her
plans. To the last Judith hoped he would shame her a little by
offering the money; and against his utter disregard her indignation
rose slowly, steadily, deepening, widening, drowning out every other
feeling for him.

When, after their final breakfast, he kissed her good-by as for the
morning only, she took her jewelry and silver, mementos of his
self-indulgence in generosity, and pawned them, mailing him the
tickets from the station where she piloted herself alone.

She spent a month (in her rest-cure!), writing and destroying letters
to him. There was no alternation of moods now. Nor was she seeking a
solution of the problem; there was only one.

At last a letter seemed to do: "It cannot hurt you to read, as much as
me to write. But it must come. I can see now it has always been
coming. Things cannot go on as they are. We are unable to improve them
together. I will cast no blame. Perhaps some other woman would have
called out a different side of you, or would have minded things less.