To grow great near or far is the one way to be hers, and to pile up great work for her sake is perhaps the best way to love her.
She could never be his wife, but she might still be his muse, resolved Theophil, feigning in that reflection for the moment a more human comfort than, alas! there really was.
But was there to be no loss to Jenny in this?
"True love in this differs from gold or clay, That to divide is not to take away." It is the convenient old plea of the poets, and yet it is sometimes true.

It was true here.

There is, I know, a sort of primitive man or woman--I believe they will some day be exhibited in menageries--who cannot be on with a new love without being ungratefully off with the old.

All depends of what the two loves are made.

If it is bodily fire and no more, of course the new love will put out the old as the great sun puts out a little smouldering fire; and the majority of so-called love-stories are merely disastrous conflagrations of that sort.