I didn't want to go to Reno, partly because I hated to classify myself with all the thousands of women who had gone there before me, and partly because I couldn't afford it. But the doctor insisted.

"The climate will do you a world of good," he told me. "It will help you get back on your feet."

That shows how much doctors know.

Sitting up in my coach seat as the train pounded its way to Chicago, across the Mississippi, and through the strange, sprawling Western states on its way to "the biggest little city in the world," I let myself think about things. Until then, thinking was a luxury that I had denied myself.

I was on my way to a bitter rendezvous, one every woman hopes she'll never have to keep. I was going to give up my husband, Don. Give him to Miriam Toll, without even putting up fight.

If they knew, my woman friends would think I was crazy. I could almost hear them talking about it among themselves, in that hushed voice women use for especially choice bits of gossip.

They'd mean well, most of them. Lillian had meant well when she'd come to the hospital last summer to give me the first hint. "Hurry up and get on your feet," she said. "There's a girl visiting the Wilburs" (they lived next door in our apartment house) "and she's making a big play for Don. Her name is Miriam Toll, and she's not the kind of girl I'd want my husband to be looking at, if I were sick in bed."

I got out of the hospital toward the end of the summer, and Don came to drive me home. I was almost happy that day, happy enough in his company to be able to quiet the nameless fears that gnawed at my insides. Don was as gentle and attentive as I could have wished. But I knew that might just be because I'd been sick. What I wanted to know was, what about that girl next door?

When I finally met her, at a Sunday afternoon beach party, it was a worse shock than I'd expected. Her beauty was the less, vital kind that startles you. She was blond, and she was tall, and she was tanned a golden brown. Of course, she wore a white bathing suit, and when I saw her in it, I decided I wasn't going to the beach again until she left town.

If seeing her was a shock, I don't know what word I would use to describe the way I felt when I saw them together. I tasted gall and wormwood then, I guess. They were already in love, and even if they didn't know it themselves -- or weren't ready to admit it -- it was as plain to me as the moon that hung over the city those long nights.

Their eyes gave them away. Maybe my illness had given me a new power to see such things, but I saw -- and I knew. Miriam's beauty was drawing a film over Don's eyes. He couldn't see beyond her.

Oh, he tried hard to conceal it from me, and he tried harder to make me comfortable. He even offered to hire a part-time maid, and all those hospital bills. But the glow of youthful loveliness that surrounded Miriam had stolen his heart, and I knew I couldn't get it back.

In my best years I never looked like Miriam Toll, and these are hardly my best years. I'll be thirty five sooner than I like to think. Don is my age, but he looks scarcely older than Miriam, and she's still in her twenties.

So I watched their love grow, and I did nothing to stop it. The Wilburs brought her to our apartment, and we visited them in theirs. We meet them here, and we meet them there. And always Miriam was around, laughing and lovely, drawing Don's eyes like a magnet.

It's hard to put into words the way I felt. There was an ache that I lived with constantly, an ache that spoke hurtfully of impending loss. He was mine, he was my whole life, and I didn't want to let him go. What woman would? But -- and this is the curious part -- there was a strange pleasure in it too. He was so obviously happy when she was near. I loved him enough to consider that, no matter how much it hurt.

The night I saw them in the Wilburs' kitchen was the time of my decision, I guess. The Wilburs were giving a small party, and the ice had melted in my glass. I got up to get some more, and when I started through the little hall that led to the kitchen, I saw them. Don was kissing her as he hadn't kissed me in years, kissing her with his arms tight around her -- and it was no light kiss of friendship.

I'm glad they didn't see me. I turned around swiftly and went back to the living-room. There was no ice in my glass, but I've got to admit there was a lot in the pit of my stomach.

When they came back into the room, they looked so awed and quiet I felt sorry for them.

Miriam left for her own home the next day, to "see to a few things," and as the days passed, Don gradually came to life. He was so darned sweet, so worried about me, so solicitous. But I knew he was hating himself. I could see it in the droop of his shoulders and in the dull look in his eyes.

I brought it into the open. I had to do it. I couldn't stand to see him suffering that way. I made him sit down after supper one night. I led up to it slowly. I had to force the words out of my throat, but I did it.

"I want a divorce , Don," I said finally.

At first he was just bewildered. Then he began to argue. Finally, a new look came over his face.

"You know, don't you?" he whispered.

I nodded. "I know," I admitted. Before he could speak, I went on. "I can't like her, or even pretend I do. But if I have to let another woman have you, I'm glad it's one like her."

Oh, he argued. He fought me for days. "I'll get over it," he swore. "I've always loved you, and I love you now. I love her, too, but it must be different."

He was caught in a web from which there's no escape, but he struggled frantically. His conscience must have given him a terrible time those nights. I ached for him but I could do nothing to help him. I'd already done all I could.

Well, I'll have done it all in a few months, anyway. I just hope and pray it's as easy to get a divorce in Reno as I've heard it is. I can't stand much more. I'll break up.

Don pleaded with me when I left to come to see him. To come see them, I guess he said. He meant it, too, I know. He loves me still. It's not the flaming he has for Miriam, but it's a deep love, I'm certain. If I didn't think that, I wouldn't be able to go on from here. I'd walk out to the vestibule of this train and throw myself off.

Will I go see them? Sure, if I can. I'd like to see him again, and I'd like to be sure I did the right thing. I'd like to see for myself that he's happy.

Of course, I'm not sure I'll make it. "Two or three years is all I can give her," I heard the doctor whisper to the nurse when I was in the hospital. "Unless they discover some new miracle drug, and I doubt that."

I doubt it too. I doubt it very much. That's why I wanted Don to have Miriam. He's going to need her.