you'd be making a fool of yourself over that young actor chap with
his pretty face. I don't hold with any of them."

But Jane was too proud to reply.

On their last night together in the Barn Street house they sat alone
in the little back-parlour as they had done for the last six years--all
their impressionable childish days. It was the only home that
Paul had known, and he felt the tragedy of its dissolution. They sat
on the old horsehair sofa, behind the table, very tearful, very
close together in spirit, holding each other's hands. They talked as
the young talk--and the old, for the matter of that. She trembled
at his wants unministered to in his new lodgings. He waved away
prospective discomfort: what did it matter? He was a man and could
rough it. It was she herself whose loss would be irreparable. She
sighed; he would soon forget her. He vowed undying remembrance by
all his gods. Some beautiful creature of the theatre would carry him
off. He laughed at such an absurdity. Jane would always be his
confidante, his intimate. Even though they lived under different
roofs, they would meet and have their long happy jaunts together.
Jane said dolefully that it could only be on Sundays, as their
respective working hours would never correspond--"And you haven't
given me your Sundays for a year," she added. Paul slid from the
dark theme and, to comfort her, spoke glowingly of the future, when
he should have achieved his greatness. He would give her a beautiful
house with carriages and servants, and she would not have to work.

"But if you are not there, what's the good of anything?" she said.

"I'll come to see you, silly dear," he replied ingenuously.