“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?”