Early in January she planned to take the children with her, and find John in his office.  That very day the tickets should be bought.  If Wallace cared enough for his family to come home in the meantime, she would tell him what she was doing.  But Martie hoped that he would not.  The one possible stumbling-block in her path would be Wallace’s objection; the one thing of which she would not allow herself to think was that he might, by some hideous whim, decide to accompany them.  Thinking of these things, she went about the process of house-cleaning and packing.  The beds, the chairs, the china and linen and blankets must bring what they could.  On the third day of the year, in his room, Martie, broom in hand, paused to study Wallace’s “chestard.”  That must go, too.  It had always been a cheaply constructed article, with one missing caster that had to be supplied by a folded wedge of paper.  Still, in a consignment with other things, it would add something to the total.  Martie put her hand upon it, and rocked it.  As usual, the steadying wedge of paper was misplaced.

She stooped to push the prop into position again; noticed that it was a piece of notepaper, doubly folded; recognized John Dryden’s handwriting—­

The room whirled about her as she straightened the crumpled and discoloured sheet, and smoothed it, and grasped at one glance its contents: 

Dear Mr. Bannister: 

I am distressed to hear of Mrs. Bannister’s illness, and can readily understand that she must not be burdened or troubled now.  Please let me know how she progresses, and let me be your banker again, if the need arises.  I am afraid she does not know how to save herself.

Faithfully yours,

John Dryden.

The date was mid-December.

Martie read it once, read it again, crushed it in her hand in a spasm of shame and pain.  She brought the clenched hand that held it against her heart, and shut her eyes.  Oh, how could he—­how could he!  To John, the last refuge of her wrecked life, he had closed the way in the very hour of escape!

For a long time she stood, leaning against the tipped chest, blind and deaf to everything but her whirling thoughts.  After a while she looked apathetically at the clock; time for Margar’s toast and boiled egg.  She must finish in here; the baby would be waking.

Somehow she got through the cold, silent afternoon.  She felt as if she were bleeding internally; as if the crimson stain from her shaken heart might ooze through her faded gingham.  She must get the children into the fresh air before the snow fell.