They rested in the after-thought of each other’s words; he pressed her hands against his lips. “I have few ambitions, Isabel,” he continued. “Of things which men mostly seek, few are of any account to me; I could not stir myself to pursue what awakens others to frantic zeal. One ambition there is that has ruled my life; a high one. I have wished to win a woman’s love. To me that has always been the one, the only thing in the end worth living for. I thought my life would pass and I should never know that supreme blessing. Whatever comes after this, I have had your love, bright one!” “And always will have.” He raised his hand in playful warning. “Life is full of tragedies. The tragedy, I have always thought, is not where two who love each other die for the sake of their love. That is glorious triumph. But where love itself dies, blown upon by the cold breath of the world, and those who loved live on with hearts made sepulchres--that is tragedy.” “I shall always love you.” She repeated it under her breath, convincing herself. “On Tuesday I go to London,” Kingcote said, seating himself by her. “So good-bye to my cottage. We shall not forget that poor little house? I hope sometimes to come and look at it, and see my dead self. Some family of working people will live there next. It will be well if they are not haunted.” “Why haunted?” “One feels that misery must cling to walls that have seen so much of it.” “But brighter spirits have since then swept and garnished it, have they not?” Kingcote was always thrilled with pleasure when her thoughts made for themselves a more imaginative kind of speech. It brought her out of the prose-talking world, and nearer to him. “They have, dear. You must write to me often, it will be long before we see each other again.” “But you do not go to-morrow; you will see me again before you go?” “If you wish it; but won’t it only make the parting harder?” “Come to me on Tuesday morning, if only for a few minutes. You will go by the 1.30 train? Oh, how shall I ever let you leave me?” Kingcote rose. He had still words to say, but they would not easily be uttered. “Isabel, will your life in future be quite the same as it has been?--no, not inwardly, but your outward, daily life?” “No, it shall not be the same,” she replied earnestly. “How can it be the same? Have I not so much that is new and dear to fill my days?” “If you had married me now,” he continued, “it would have been to leave the world with which you are familiar; you were ready to make that sacrifice for me. Can you promise me to draw a little apart--to try yourself--to see if you could really give it up, and live for yourself and for me?” “I will--indeed I will, Bernard!--you shall know all I do every day; you shall see if I cannot live as you wish. You shall tell me of books to read; I will come into _your_ world.”