“It’s just as well,” said her aunt, “that there’s an end of it, or you’d be making a fool of yourself over that young actor chap with his pretty face.  I don’t hold with any of them.”

But Jane was too proud to reply.

On their last night together in the Barn Street house they sat alone in the little back-parlour as they had done for the last six years—­all their impressionable childish days.  It was the only home that Paul had known, and he felt the tragedy of its dissolution.  They sat on the old horsehair sofa, behind the table, very tearful, very close together in spirit, holding each other’s hands.  They talked as the young talk—­and the old, for the matter of that.  She trembled at his wants unministered to in his new lodgings.  He waved away prospective discomfort:  what did it matter?  He was a man and could rough it.  It was she herself whose loss would be irreparable.  She sighed; he would soon forget her.  He vowed undying remembrance by all his gods.  Some beautiful creature of the theatre would carry him off.  He laughed at such an absurdity.  Jane would always be his confidante, his intimate.  Even though they lived under different roofs, they would meet and have their long happy jaunts together.  Jane said dolefully that it could only be on Sundays, as their respective working hours would never correspond—­“And you haven’t given me your Sundays for a year,” she added.  Paul slid from the dark theme and, to comfort her, spoke glowingly of the future, when he should have achieved his greatness.  He would give her a beautiful house with carriages and servants, and she would not have to work.

“But if you are not there, what’s the good of anything?” she said.

“I’ll come to see you, silly dear,” he replied ingenuously.

Before they parted for the night she threw her arms round his neck impulsively.  “Don’t quite forget me, Paul.  It would break my heart.  I’ve only you left now poor mother’s gone.”

Paul kissed her and vowed again.  He did not vow that he would be a mother to her, though to the girl’s heart it seemed as if he did.  The little girl was aching for a note in his voice that never came.  Now, ninety-nine youths in a hundred who held, at such a sentimental moment, a comely and not uncared-for maiden in their arms, would have lost their heads (and their hearts) and vowed in the desired manner.  But Paul was different, and Jane knew it, to her sorrow.  He was by no means temperamentally cold; far from it.  But, you see, he lived intensely in his dream, and only on its outer fringe had Jane her place.  In the heart of it, hidden in amethystine mist, from which only flashed the diadem on her hair, dwelt the exquisite, the incomparable lady, the princess who should share his kingdom, while he knelt at her feet and worshipped her and kissed the rosy tips of her calm fingers.  So, as it never entered his head to kiss the finger tips of poor Jane, it never entered