“After we've parted I shall look to talk it over with you.”
“So shall I.”
“That's absurd.”
“Absurd.”
“I feel as if you'd always be there, just about where you are now.
Invisible perhaps, but there. We've spent so much of our lives joggling
elbows.”...
“Yes. Yes. I don't in the least realise it. I suppose I shall begin to
when the train goes out of the station. Are we wanting in imagination,
Isabel?”
“I don't know. We've always assumed it was the other way about.”
“Even when the train goes out of the station--! I've seen you into so
many trains.”
“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.
“Come here,” she whispered. “Never mind the porters. What can they know?
Just one time more--I must.”
She rested her hand against the door of the carriage and bent down upon
me, and put her cold, moist lips to mine.