What could she say to him? In truth, it was all over,—such love at least as that of which his old heart was dreaming in its dotage. There is no Medea's caldron from which our limbs can come out young and fresh; and it were well that the heart should grow old as does the body.
"It is not all over while we are with you," she said, caressing him. But she knew that what she said was a subterfuge.
"Yes, yes; I have you, dearest," he answered. But he also knew that that pretence at comfort was false and hollow.
"And she starts on Thursday," he said; "on next Thursday."
"Yes, on Thursday. It will be much better for her to be away from London. While she is there she never ventures even into the street."
"Edith, I shall see her before she goes."
"Will that be wise, sir?"
"Perhaps not. It may be foolish,—very foolish; but still I shall see her. I think you forget, Edith, that I have never yet bidden her farewell. I have not spoken to her since that day when she behaved so generously."
"I do not think that she expects it, father."
"No; she expects nothing for herself. Had it been in her nature to expect such a visit, I should not have been anxious to make it. I will go to-morrow. She is always at home you say?"