lives. Or any day.”
“I wonder how it will feel?” said Isabel.
“It will be very strange at first—not to be able to tell you things.”
“I've a superstition that after—after we've parted—if ever I go into my room and talk, you'll hear. You'll be—somewhere.”
“I shall be in the world—yes.”
“I don't feel as though these days ahead were real. Here we are, here we remain.”
“Yes, I feel that. As though you and I were two immortals, who didn't live in time and space at all, who never met, who couldn't part, and here we lie on Olympus. And those two poor creatures who did meet, poor little Richard Remington and Isabel Rivers, who met and loved too much and had to part, they part and go their ways, and we lie here and watch them, you and I. She'll cry, poor dear.”
“She'll cry. She's crying now!”
“Poor little beasts! I think he'll cry too. He winces. He could—for tuppence. I didn't know he had lachrymal glands at all until a little while ago. I suppose all love is hysterical—and a little foolish. Poor mites! Silly little pitiful creatures! How we have blundered! Think how we must look to God! Well, we'll pity them, and then we'll inspire him to stiffen up again—and do as we've determined he shall do. We'll see it through,—we who lie here on the cliff. They'll be mean at times, and horrid at times; we know them! Do you see her, a poor little fine lady in a great house,—she sometimes goes to her room and writes.”
“She writes for his BLUE