“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.