"Yes, they are over. I shall travel no more. I didn't find what I sought."
"And what was that?"
And her words as she spoke them sounded to Owen passionate, tender, and melancholy as the nightingale; and his words, too, seemed to partake of the same passionate melancholy.
"Forgetfulness of you."
"So you wished to forget me? I am sorry."
"Sorry that I haven't forgotten you? That, Evelyn, is impossible for me to believe; it isn't human to wish ourselves forgotten."
"No, Owen, I don't wish you to forget me, I am glad you have not; but
I am sorry there was any need for you to seek forgetfulness."
"And is there any need?"
"Yes, for the Evelyn you loved died years ago."
"Oh, Evelyn, don't say that; she is not dead?"