problems. I began to talk out my thoughts, sitting up beside her,
as I could never talk of them to any one but Isabel; began to
recover again the purpose that lay under all my political ambitions
and adjustments and anticipations. I saw the State, splendid and
wide as I had seen it in that first travel of mine, but now it was
no mere distant prospect of spires and pinnacles, but populous with
fine-trained, bold-thinking, bold-doing people. It was as if I had
forgotten for a long time and now remembered with amazement.
At first, I told her, I had been altogether at a loss how I could do
anything to battle against the aimless muddle of our world; I had
wanted a clue-until she had come into my life questioning,
suggesting, unconsciously illuminating. "But I have done nothing,"
she protested. I declared she had done everything in growing to
education under my eyes, in reflecting again upon all the processes
that had made myself, so that instead of abstractions and blue-books
and bills and devices, I had realised the world of mankind as a
crowd needing before all things fine women and men. We'd spoilt
ourselves in learning that, but anyhow we had our lesson. Before
her I was in a nineteenth-century darkness, dealing with the nation
as if it were a crowd of selfish men, forgetful of women and
children and that shy wild thing in the hearts of men, love, which
must be drawn upon as it has never been drawn upon before, if the
State is to live. I saw now how it is possible to bring the loose
factors of a great realm together, to create a mind of literature
and thought in it, and the expression of a purpose to make it self-
conscious and fine. I had it all clear before me, so that at a
score of points I could presently begin. The BLUE WEEKLY was a
centre of force. Already we had given Imperialism a criticism, and
leavened half the press from our columns. Our movement consolidated
and spread. We should presently come into power. Everything moved
towards our hands. We should be able to get at the schools, the
services, the universities, the church; enormously increase the
endowment of research, and organise what was sorely wanted, a
criticism of research; contrive a closer contact between the press
and creative intellectual life; foster literature, clarify,
strengthen the public consciousness, develop social organisation and
a sense of the State. Men were coming to us every day, brilliant
young peers like Lord Dentonhill, writers like Carnot and Cresswell.
It filled me with pride to win such men. "We stand for so much more
than we seem to stand for," I said. I opened my heart to her, so
freely that I hesitate to open my heart even to the reader, telling
of projects and ambitions I cherished, of my consciousness of great
powers and widening opportunities…
Isabel watched me as I talked.
She too, I think, had forgotten these things for a while. For it is
curious and I think a very significant thing that since we had
become lovers, we had talked very little of the broader things that
had once so strongly gripped our imaginations.
"It's good," I said, "to talk like this to you, to get back to youth
and great ambitions with you. There have been times lately when
politics has seemed the pettiest game played with mean tools for
mean ends-and none the less so that the happiness of three hundred
million people might be touched by our follies. I talk to no one
else like this… And now I think of parting, I think but of
how much more I might have talked to you."…
Things drew to an end at last, but after we had spoken of a thousand
things.
"We've talked away our last half day," I said, staring over my
shoulder at the blazing sunset sky behind us. "Dear, it's been the
last day of our lives for us… It doesn't seem like the last
day of our lives. Or any day."
"I wonder how it will feel?" said Isabel.
"It will be very strange at first-not to be able to tell you
things."
"I've a superstition that after-after we've parted-if ever I go
into my room and talk, you'll hear. You'll be-somewhere."
"I shall be in the world-yes."
"I don't feel as though these days ahead were real. Here we are,
here we remain."
"Yes, I feel that. As though you and I were two immortals, who
didn't live in time and space at all, who never met, who couldn't
part, and here we lie on Olympus. And those two poor creatures who
did meet, poor little Richard Remington and Isabel Rivers, who met
and loved too much and had to part, they part and go their ways, and
we lie here and watch them, you and I. She'll cry, poor dear."
"She'll cry. She's crying now!"
"Poor little beasts! I think he'll cry too. He winces. He could-
for tuppence. I didn't know he had lachrymal glands at all until a
little while ago. I suppose all love is hysterical-and a little
foolish. Poor mites! Silly little pitiful creatures! How we have
blundered! Think how we must look to God! Well, we'll pity them,
and then we'll inspire him to stiffen up again-and do as we've
determined he shall do. We'll see it through,-we who lie here on
the cliff. They'll be mean at times, and horrid at times; we know
them! Do you see her, a poor little fine lady in a great house,-
she sometimes goes to her room and writes."
"She writes for his BLUE WEEKLY still."
"Yes. Sometimes-I hope. And he's there in the office with a bit
of her copy in his hand."
"Is it as good as if she still talked it over with him before she
wrote it? Is it?"
"Better, I think. Let's play it's better-anyhow. It may be that
talking over was rather mixed with love-making. After all, love-
making is joy rather than magic. Don't let's pretend about that
even… Let's go on watching him. (I don't see why her writing
shouldn't be better. Indeed I don't.) See! There he goes down
along the Embankment to Westminster just like a real man, for all
that he's smaller than a grain of dust. What is running round
inside that speck of a head of his? Look at him going past the
Policemen, specks too-selected large ones from the country. I
think he's going to dinner with the Speaker-some old thing like
that. Is his face harder or commoner or stronger?-I can't quite