: "The _truth_, you
have promised to tell it--at least to your own soul."

_The truth!_

Slowly I turn back to what I wrote in those unhappy days:

"Why do I live with him? I no longer love him. At times I despise him
and his slightest touch makes me shiver with disgust, yet I continue to
endure this life--why?

"It is because of the great pity I have for him. He is weak and
helpless, almost child-like in his dependence on me. I am the prop which
holds up the last shreds of his self-respect. If I left him, he would
drift lower and lower, I know it. Sometimes I pass some awful creature
staggering along the sidewalks. He is dirty and uncared for. Long matted
hair falls across his bleared and sunken eyes. I say to myself: 'But for
you, Penelope Wells, that might be Julian.' And this gives me courage to
take up my burden once more."

* * * * *

And again I find:

"I am beginning to fear. I have been looking in my mirror and it seems
to me that my face is taking on the lines of animalism that I see daily
becoming deeper in Julian's face. Must I continue this degradation? If I
were helping him to raise himself--but I am not, not really. It's too
heavy a weight for me to bear. I am sinking ... sinking to his level. I
cannot stand it. It is killing me...."

* * * * *

And again:

"I am too heartsick to write....

"I began this a week ago in agony of soul when I tried to set down my
feelings about a horrible night with Julian, but I could not. He has
been drinking--drinking for weeks--neglecting his business, breaking all
his promises to me. What can I do? How can I help him, strengthen him,
keep him from doing some irrevocable thing that will utterly destroy our
home and make me lose him? In spite of his weakness, his neglect, his
faithlessness, I cannot bear the thought of losing him. My pride is
involved and--and _something else_!

"He had not come home for dinner that night and it was ten o'clock when
I heard the door slam. Julian came into the living room and as soon as I
saw him my heart sank. He dropped into a chair without speaking.

"'Tired, dear?' I said, trying to smile a welcome.

"'Dead beat,' he sighed and stared moodily into the fire.

"I went to him and rested my hand lightly on his head and smoothed back
his hair as he liked me to do. He jerked away.

"'Wish you'd let me alone,' he muttered fretfully.

"I drew back, knowing what