Very quietly Audrey had taken herself out of Clayton's life. She sent
him a little note of farewell: "We have had ten very wonderful months, Clay," she wrote. "We ought to
be very happy. So few have as much. And we both know that this can't
go on. I am going abroad. I have an opportunity to go over and see what
Englishwomen are doing in the way of standing behind their men at war.
Then I am to tell our women at home. Not that they need it now, bless
them!

"I believe you will be glad to know that I am to be on the same side of
the ocean with Graham. I could get to him, I think, if anything should
go wrong. Will you send him the enclosed address?

"But, my dear, the address is for him, not for you. You must not write
to me. I have used up every particle of moral courage I possess, as
it is. And I am holding this in my mind, as you must. Time is a great
healer of all wounds. We could have been happy together; oh, my dear,
so very happy together! Now that I am going, let me be frank for once. I
have given you the finest thing I am capable of. I am better for caring
for you as I have, as I do.

"But those days in the hospital told me we couldn't go on. Things like
that don't stand still. Maybe--we are only human, Clay--maybe if the old
days were still here we might have compromised with life. I don't know.
But I do know that we never will, now.