They didn’t even say good-bye, for, if they were never to meet again, the look was not good-bye.  And meet again it was not unlikely they would, for it had been already arranged that Isabel was to lead off the autumn entertainments; but the look did not mean that, either.  As life had been planned for them, all subsequent meetings must be merely trivialities.  They had met once, and fate had decided that they must never meet like that again.  In that long look each knew that they met and parted for ever, autumn arrangements notwithstanding.

Each came out of that look as out of a great cathedral, and from that moment till the train left Theophil, with an unwonted sense of loneliness, by Jenny’s side, they entered that cathedral no more.  Their devotions were done for that day, and they must resume their secular duties, rippling idly over the great deeps of themselves.

One always leaves a station from which a dear friend has just gone with a certain subdued air, a certain bereaved hush in the voice, and even Jenny felt a momentary loneliness too.  But it was not long before the doors of home opened again for her in the sound of Theophil’s voice; and in the sense of the old familiar nearness to him she was back again safe in the only world she ever wished to dwell in.

It was more of an effort with Theophil, and the voice that made home for Jenny had a strange sound in his own ears, as though it were still talking to Isabel; but the effort was soon made, and though Jenny teased him a little and said she believed he had quite lost his, that was to say her, heart to Isabel, of course she believed no such thing.  Doubt is too terrible a toy for true love to play with.  You only dare to doubt as you must sometimes face the fear of death.

“I wish next October were here,” said Jenny, artlessly; “it seems such a long time to wait to see her again.”

Did Theophil wish the same?  He hardly knew.

“Distance is such a silly thing,” went on Jenny.  “It seems to have been invented just to separate those who want to be together.  It seems so arbitrary, so unnecessary.”

“I suppose death is a form of distance,” said Theophil, irrelevantly.

“Life too, I’m afraid,” said Jenny.

“Yes, indeed, life too,” assented Theophil, dreamily.

“If I were to die,” said Jenny, suddenly, “would you still do what we said?”

“Why do you ask that, dear?  You’re a very serious little woman this morning.  Of course I would.  You know.  But why do you ask me now?”

“Oh, only, dear, because I wonder whether we really ought to.  Somehow Isabel’s visit has made me feel that life is a bigger, fuller thing than I had dreamed, and that men like you, at all events, have duties towards it even greater than your love for a little thing like me.”

“Jenny dear, don’t talk like that.  Why should you?  You don’t surely doubt my love!”

“Of course not, Theophil.  It was only my silly little brain thinking for once in a while,—­and I don’t mean to be unkind, but really I rather mean it.  Are you still quite sure there is nothing in the world more important than love?”