sympathetic and attractive half-of the human beings in the world,
so far as any frank intercourse is concerned. Iam quite convinced
anyhow that such a qualified intimacy as ours, such a drifting into
the sense of possession, such untrammeled conversation with an
invisible, implacable limit set just where the intimacy glows, it is
no kind of tolerable compromise. If men and women are to go so far
together, they must be free to go as far as they may want to go,
without the vindictive destruction that has come upon us. On the
basis of the accepted codes the jealous people are right, and the
liberal-minded ones are playing with fire. If people are not to
love, then they must be kept apart. If they are not to be kept
apart, then we must prepare for an unprecedented toleration of
lovers.
Isabel was as unforeseeing as I to begin with, but sex marches into
the life of an intelligent girl with demands and challenges far more
urgent than the mere call of curiosity and satiabledesire that
comes to a young man. No woman yet has dared to tell the story of
that unfolding. She attracted men, and she encouraged them, and
watched them, and tested them, and dismissed them, and concealed the
substance of her thoughts about them in the way that seems
instinctive in a natural-minded girl. There was even an engagement-
amidst the protests and disapproval of the college authorities. I
never saw the man, though she gave me a long history of the affair,
to which I listened with a forced and insincere sympathy. She
struck me oddly as taking the relationship for a thing in itself,
and regardless of its consequences. After a time she became silent
about him, and then threw him over; and by that time, I think, for
all that she was so much my junior, she knew more about herself and
me than I was to know for several years to come.
We didn't see each other for some months after my resignation, but
we kept up a frequent correspondence. She said twice over that she
wanted to talk to me, that letters didn't convey what one wanted to
say, and I went up to Oxford pretty definitely to see her-though I
combined it with one or two other engagements-somewhere in
February. Insensibly she had become important enough for me to make
journeys for her.
But we didn't see very much of one another on that occasion. There
was something in the air between us that made a faint embarrassment;
the mere fact, perhaps, that she had asked me to come up.
A year before she would have dashed off with me quite unscrupulously
to talk alone, carried me off to her room for an hour with a minute
of chaperonage to satisfy the rules. Now there was always some one
or other near us that it seemed impossible to exorcise.
We went for a walk on the Sunday afternoon with old Fortescue, K.
C., who'd come up to see his two daughters, both great friends of
Isabel's, and some mute inglorious don whose name I forget, but who
was in a state of marked admiration for her. The six of us played a
game of conversational entanglements throughout, and mostly I was
impressing the Fortescue girls with the want of mental concentration
possible in a rising politician. We went down Carfex, I remember,
to Folly Bridge, and inspected the Barges, and then back by way of
Merton to the Botanic Gardens and Magdalen Bridge. And in the
Botanic Gardens she got almost her only chance with me.
"Last months at Oxford," she said.
"And then?" I asked.
"I'm coming to London," she said.
"To write?"
She was silent for a moment. Then she said abruptly, with that
quick flush of hers and a sudden boldness in her eyes: "I'm going to
work with you. Why shouldn't I?"
3
Here, again, I suppose I had a fair warning of the drift of things.
I seem to remembermyself in the train to Paddington, sitting with a
handful of papers-galley proofs for the BLUE WEEKLY, I suppose-on
my lap, and thinking about her and that last sentence of hers, and
all that it might mean to me.
It is very hard to recall even the main outline of anything so
elusive as a meditation. I know that the idea of working with her
gripped me, fascinated me. That my value in her life seemed growing
filled me with pride and a kind of gratitude. I was already in no
doubt that her value in my life was tremendous. It made it none the
less, that in those days I was obsessed by the idea that she was
transitory, and bound to go out of my life again. It is no good
trying to set too fine a face upon this complex business, there is
gold and clay and sunlight and savagery in every love story, and a
multitude of elvish elements peeped out beneath the fine rich
curtain of affection that masked our future. I've never properly
weighed how immensely my vanity was gratified by her clear
preference for me. Nor can I for a moment determine how much
deliberate intention I hide from myself in this affair.
Certainly I think some part of me must have been saying in the
train: "Leave go of her. Get away from her. End this now." I