“I shall go on thinking of things to say to you--things to put in your letters. For years to come. How can I ever stop thinking in that way now? We've got into each other's brains.” “It isn't real,” I said; “nothing is real. The world's no more than a fantastic dream. Why are we parting, Isabel?” “I don't know. It seems now supremely silly. I suppose we have to. Can't we meet?--don't you think we shall meet even in dreams?” “We'll meet a thousand times in dreams,” I said. “I wish we could dream at the same time,” said Isabel.... “Dream walks. I can't believe, dear, I shall never have a walk with you again.” “If I'd stayed six months in America,” I said, “we might have walked long walks and talked long talks for all our lives.” “Not in a world of Baileys,” said Isabel. “And anyhow--” She stopped short. I looked interrogation. “We've loved,” she said. I took her ticket, saw to her luggage, and stood by the door of the compartment. “Good-bye,” I said a little stiffly, conscious of the people upon the platform. She bent above me, white and dusky, looking at me very steadfastly. “Come here,” she whispered. “Never mind the porters. What can they know? Just one time more--I must.” She rested her hand against the door of the carriage and bent down upon me, and put her cold, moist lips to mine. CHAPTER THE THIRD ~~ THE BREAKING POINT 1 And then we broke down. We broke our faith with both Margaret and Shoesmith, flung career and duty out of our lives, and went away together. It is only now, almost a year after these events, that I can begin to see what happened to me. At the time it seemed to me I was a rational, responsible creature, but indeed I had not parted from her two days before I became a monomaniac to whom nothing could matter but Isabel. Every truth had to be squared to that obsession, every duty. It astounds me to think how I forgot Margaret, forgot my work, forgot everything but that we two were parted. I still believe that with better chances we might have escaped the consequences of the emotional storm that presently seized us both. But we had no foresight of that, and no preparation for it, and our circumstances betrayed us. It was partly Shoesmith's unwisdom in delaying his marriage until after the end of the session--partly my own amazing folly in returning within four days to Westminster. But we were all of us intent upon the defeat of scandal and the complete restoration of appearances. It seemed necessary that Shoesmith's marriage should not seem to be hurried, still more necessary that I should not vanish inexplicably. I had to be visible with Margaret in London just as much as possible; we went to restaurants, we visited the theatre; we could even contemplate the possibility of my presence at the wedding. For that, however, we had schemed a weekend visit to Wales, and a fictitious sprained ankle at the last moment which would justify my absence....