"The—the old feeling—went out—right there—like a candle in the wind. No, not that way, quite, but like a lamp drinking the last of its oil. Where he lodged that night——"
"Yes——"
"—He heard a clock strike every hour; and at the break of day that—feeling—whatever it was—with the only real good excuse to live it ever had—was dead."
"And that wasn't true love? Don't you believe it was?"
"Do you, Miss Barbara Garnet? Could true love lie down and give up the ghost at such a time and on such a pretext as that? Could it? Could it?"
"I think—O—I think it—you'll forgive me if——"
"Forgive! Why, how can you offend me? You don't imagine——"
"O no! I forgot. Well I think the love was true in degree; not the very truest. It was only first love; but it was the first love of a true heart."
"To be followed by a later and truer love, you think?"
"You shouldn't—O I don't know, Mr. March. What do you think?"