heart even to the reader, telling of projects and ambitions I cherished, of my consciousness of great powers and widening opportunities.... Isabel watched me as I talked. She too, I think, had forgotten these things for a while. For it is curious and I think a very significant thing that since we had become lovers, we had talked very little of the broader things that had once so strongly gripped our imaginations. “It's good,” I said, “to talk like this to you, to get back to youth and great ambitions with you. There have been times lately when politics has seemed the pettiest game played with mean tools for mean ends--and none the less so that the happiness of three hundred million people might be touched by our follies. I talk to no one else like this.... And now I think of parting, I think but of how much more I might have talked to you.”... Things drew to an end at last, but after we had spoken of a thousand things. “We've talked away our last half day,” I said, staring over my shoulder at the blazing sunset sky behind us. “Dear, it's been the last day of our lives for us.... It doesn't seem like the last day of our lives. Or any day.” “I wonder how it will feel?” said Isabel. “It will be very strange at first--not to be able to tell you things.” “I've a superstition that after--after we've parted--if ever I go into my room and talk, you'll hear. You'll be--somewhere.” “I shall be in the world--yes.” “I don't feel as though these days ahead were real. Here we are, here we remain.” “Yes, I feel that. As though you and I were two immortals, who didn't live in time and space at all, who never met, who couldn't part, and here we lie on Olympus. And those two poor creatures who did meet, poor little Richard Remington and Isabel Rivers, who met and loved too much and had to part, they part and go their ways, and we lie here and watch them, you and I. She'll cry, poor dear.” “She'll cry. She's crying now!” “Poor little beasts! I think he'll cry too. He winces. He could--for tuppence. I didn't know he had lachrymal glands at all until a little while ago. I suppose all love is hysterical--and a little foolish. Poor mites! Silly little pitiful creatures! How we have blundered! Think how we must look to God! Well, we'll pity them, and then we'll inspire him to stiffen up again--and do as we've determined he shall do. We'll see it through,--we who lie here on the cliff. They'll be mean at times, and horrid at times; we know them! Do you see her, a poor little fine lady in a great house,--she sometimes goes to her room and writes.” “She writes for his BLUE WEEKLY still.” “Yes. Sometimes--I hope. And he's there in the office with a bit of her copy in his hand.” “Is it as good as if she still talked it over with him before she wrote it? Is it?”