In a very real sense indeed Jenny had not died, or she was coming to life again as she had never lived before; and it was no merely idealised Jenny who was henceforward to fill up all her lover's thoughts and speak to him in every sight and sound, but just the human Jenny, with her faults and all.
On these--such little faults!--Theophil ever loved to dwell.

They saved Jenny from becoming an abstraction, a saint.

Even those bitter little quarrels which all lovers must suffer,--how sweet they seemed now! The old mother's method was no doubt again different from her son-in-law's.

She would never have admitted that Jenny had a fault.
Such is the difference in reality between the new idealism and the old.
In such small matters as the minutiae of mourning that difference was again illustrated.

Theophil could permit himself no outward insignia of sorrow which he could not wear for ever.