I was not long in finding that on Edith's part there was a corresponding confusion of identities.

Never, surely, was there between freshly united lovers a stranger talk than ours that afternoon.

She seemed more anxious to have me speak of Edith Bartlett than of herself, of how I had loved her than how I loved herself, rewarding my fond words concerning another woman with tears and tender smiles and pressures of the hand.
"You must not love me too much for myself," she said.

"I shall be very jealous for her.

I shall not let you forget her.