hardly go
without a word."

"I am sure he will be glad that you have come."

"And you?"

"I am glad too,--so that I may say good-bye." Then she put out her
hand, and he held it for a moment as he looked into her eyes. There
was not a word more, but it seemed to Lucy as though there had been
so many words.

Things went on quickly. Egbert Dormer died, and Lucy was taken away
to Kingsbury Crescent. When once Ayala had spoken about Mr. Hamel,
Lucy had silenced her. Any allusion to the idea of love wounded her,
as though it was too impossible for dreams, too holy for words. How
should there be words about a lover when father and mother were both
dead? He had gone to his old and natural home. He had gone, and of
course he would not return. To Ayala, when she came up to London
early in November, to Ayala, who was going to Rome, where Isadore
Hamel now was, Isadore Hamel's name was not mentioned. But through
the long mornings of her life, through the long evenings, through the
long nights, she still thought of him,--she could not keep herself
from thinking. To a girl whose life is full of delights her lover
need not be so very much,--need not, at least, be everything.
Though he be a lover to be loved at all points, her friends will be
something, her dancing, her horse, her theatre-going, her brothers
and sisters, even her father and mother. But Lucy had nothing. The
vision of Isadore Hamel had passed across her life, and had left with
her the only possession that she had. It need hardly be said that
she never alluded to that possession at Kingsbury Crescent. It was
not a possession from which any enjoyment could come except that of
thinking of it. He had passed away from her, and there was no point
of life at which he could come across her again. There was no longer
that half-joint studio. If it had been her lot to be as was Ayala,
she then would have been taken to Rome. Then again he would have
looked into her eyes and taken her hand in his. Then perhaps--.
But now, even though he were to come back to London, he would know
nothing of her haunts. Even in that case nothing would bring them
together. As the idea was crossing her mind,--as it did cross it
so frequently,--she saw him turning from the path on which she was
walking, making his way towards the steps of the Memorial.

Though she saw no more than his back she was sure that it was Isadore
Hamel. For a moment there was an impulse on her to run after him and
to cal