Books brought the new current; and soon she had him moving almost unconsciously among old scenes, recalling old contests of ideas, and venturing on bold reproductions of past intellectual ideals.

But though they were in this dangerous field of the past, he did not once betray a sign of feeling, not even when, poring over Coventry Patmore's poems, her hand touched his, and she read the lines which they had read together so long ago, with no thought of any significance to themselves: "With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part.
My very Dear, Our solace is the sad road lies so clear...
Go thou to East, I West.
We will not say There's any hope, it is so far away..." He read the verses with a smile of quiet enjoyment, saying, when he had finished: "A really moving and intimate piece of work.

I wonder what their story was--a hopeless love, of course.

An affaire--an 'episode'-- London ladies now call such things." "You find London has changed much since you went away--in three years only ?" she asked.
"Three years--why, it's an eternity, or a minute, as you are obliged to live it.

In penal servitude it is centuries, in the Appian Way of pleasure it is a sunrise moment.