‘Call it illusion if you like,’ he said.  ’Words are nothing.  I only know that for me it will be eternal.  I only know that my one desire is to be with you always, never to leave you, not to miss a moment of you; to have you for mine, openly, securely.  Carlotta, where shall we go?’

‘We must travel, mustn’t we?’

‘Travel?’ he repeated, with an air of discontent.  ‘Yes.  But where to?’

‘Travel,’ I said.  ‘See things.  See the world.’

‘I had thought we might find some quiet little place,’ he said wistfully, and as if apologetically, where we could be alone, undisturbed, some spot where we could have ourselves wholly to ourselves, and go walks into mountains and return for dinner; and then the long, calm evenings!  Dearest, our honeymoon!’

Our honeymoon!  I had not, in the pursuit of my calling, studied human nature and collected documents for nothing.  With how many brides had I not talked!  How many loves did I not know to have been paralyzed and killed by a surfeit in the frail early stages of their existence!  Inexperienced as I was, my learning in humanity was wiser than the experience of my impulsive, generous, magnanimous lover, to whom the very thought of calculation would have been abhorrent.  But I saw, I felt, I lived through in a few seconds the interminable and monotonous length of those calm days, and especially those calm evenings succeeding each other with a formidable sameness.  I had watched great loves faint and die.  And I knew that our love—­miraculously sweet as it was—­probably was not greater than many great ones that had not stood the test.  You perceive the cold observer in me.  I knew that when love lasted, the credit of the survival was due far more often to the woman than to the man.  The woman must husband herself, dole herself out, economize herself so that she might be splendidly wasteful when need was.  The woman must plan, scheme, devise, invent, reconnoitre, take precautions; and do all this sincerely and lovingly in the name and honour of love.  A passion, for her, is a campaign; and her deadliest enemy is satiety.  Looking into my own heart, and into his, I saw nothing but hope for the future of our love.  But the beautiful plant must not be exposed to hazard.  Suppose it sickened, such a love as ours—­what then?  The misery of hell, the torture of the damned!  Only its rich and ample continuance could justify us.

‘My dear,’ I said submissively, ’I shall leave everything to you.  The idea of travelling occurred to me; that was all.  I have never travelled further than Cannes.  Still, we have all our lives before us.’

‘We will travel,’ he said unselfishly.  ’We’ll go round the world—­slowly.  I’ll get the tickets at Cook’s to-morrow.’

‘But, dearest, if you would rather—­’

‘No, no!  In any case we shall always have our evenings.’

‘Of course we shall.  Dearest, how good you are!’

‘I wish I was,’ he murmured.