And so the tale is ended. I don’t think I shall ever write any more.
In the autumn, when I started this manuscript, I just intended to put
down the happenings of a lonely woman’s life, to read over on evenings
when looking back was pleasanter than looking forward. Now, without
intending to, I have written a story, which is not my fault, as the
story happened to intrude itself into the lonely woman’s life, greatly
to her surprise, and a good deal to her sorrow. But this is the finish
of it. There is no more to tell. The heroine has gone, if to come back
not the same heroine. The hero--you know as much about him as I do.
And the author--well, the author is just where she was, a widow of
thirty-three, doing light housekeeping in an eighteen-foot apartment.
It can’t be much of a story because it hasn’t got anywhere; nobody has
died, nobody has married. So to myself--for I am going to put this away
in a trunk and never let a soul see it--I make my bow as an author.
Good night, Evelyn Drake. As a sadder and wiser woman I take my leave
of you. Good-by.