Never voice nor look nor touch of woman had affected Theophil before as the least tone or glance or movement of Isabel stirred him to the centre of his being.  To meet her eyes was to release a music that went shuddering through the whole world; her lightest word was filled with echoes of infinite things.  Not a lover only, but anyone with instincts for such perceptions, looking at Isabel, would have said:  There is a woman who is needed to make some man a great poet, a great artist, some kind of great man!  She belongs to the history-making women.  Hundreds of women will attract men by the hundred where she will attract comparatively few, but that few will be the pick of men; and some day, when the other women have gone the way of all sweet roses, she will still remain (if she has found an artist to understand her face) the frontispiece of some distinguished biography, or hang in a gallery of the period among the few faces that were indestructibly personal; not the faces that have lived, but the faces that still go on living, the faces that are influences still, the unique, daemonic faces.

Isabel was indeed a muse that waited for her poet.  The mere idea of such a woman, cherished across dividing seas and separating years, will help a man be great.  To grow great near or far is the one way to be hers, and to pile up great work for her sake is perhaps the best way to love her.  She could never be his wife, but she might still be his muse, resolved Theophil, feigning in that reflection for the moment a more human comfort than, alas! there really was.

But was there to be no loss to Jenny in this?

     “True love in this differs from gold or clay,
     That to divide is not to take away.”

It is the convenient old plea of the poets, and yet it is sometimes true.  It was true here.  There is, I know, a sort of primitive man or woman—­I believe they will some day be exhibited in menageries—­who cannot be on with a new love without being ungratefully off with the old.  All depends of what the two loves are made.  If it is bodily fire and no more, of course the new love will put out the old as the great sun puts out a little smouldering fire; and the majority of so-called love-stories are merely disastrous conflagrations of that sort.  In such cases the new love is no sooner found than the old becomes grievous, a burden; by a malignant witchcraft the old charms have grown veritably repellent, and “all the heaven that was” irretrievably disenchanted.  Which is the illusion, one wonders,—­the original enchantment or the final disenchantment?

When, however, love can give a better account of its preferences than this, and point out, say in Jenny, many good reasons why she was at first and must for ever remain love-worthy, whatever rival reasons for love another woman may bring; when too there is added to those reasons for loving Jenny the dear habit of loving her, the gratitude—­love must forgive the word—­which has accumulated interest upon the original love, the beauties that have been gained by becoming familiarities, and the familiarities that have become beauties by very use,—­well, really, is it such a hardship, after all, for a man to be expected to keep true to his Jenny?