way of all that you and I are doing now."

"I!" said Isabel, and laughed.

"Well, of some such thing," I said, and remained for awhile silent,

thinking of Locarno.

I recalled once more the largeness, the release from small personal

things that I had felt in my youth; statecraft became real and

wonderful again with the memory, the gigantic handling of gigantic

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-