“I wish I had been more to you all these years,” she said gently.

He did not quite take that in:  and returned hastily to Gibbon.

Then they began to stroll out together.  They had nothing to talk about:  he was not interested in the outside world, and she was not interested in Roman History.  But they were trying to get nearer to each other:  they had lived years together, but they had never advanced a step; now they were trying, she consciously, he unconsciously.  But it was a slow process, and pathetic, as everything human is.

“If we could only find some subject which we both liked,” Bernardine thought to herself.  “That might knit us together.”

Well, they found a subject; though, perhaps, it was an unlikely one.  The cart-horses:  those great, strong, patient toilers of the road attracted their attention, and after that no walk was without its pleasure or interest.  The brewers’ horses were the favourites, though there were others, too, which met with their approval.  He began to know and recognize them.  He was almost like a child in his newfound interest.  On Whit Monday they both went to the cart-horse parade in Regent’s Park.  They talked about the enjoyment for days afterwards.

“Next year,” he told her, “we must subscribe to the fund, even if we have to sell a book.”

He did not like to sell his books:  he parted with them painfully, as some people part with their illusions.

Bernardine bought a paper for herself every day; but one evening she came in without one.  She had been seeing after some teaching, and had without any difficulty succeeded in getting some temporary light work at one of the high schools.  She forgot to buy her newspaper.

The old man noticed this.  He put on his shabby felt hat, and went down the street, and brought in a copy of the Daily News.

“I don’t remember what you like, but will this do?” he asked.

He was quite proud of himself for showing her this attention, almost as proud as the Disagreeable Man, when he did something kind and thoughtful.

Bernardine thought of him, and the tears came into her eyes at once.  When did she not think of him?  Then she glanced at the front sheet, and in the death column her eye rested on his name:  and she read that Robert Allitsen’s mother had passed away.  So the Disagreeable Man had won his freedom at last.  His words echoed back to her: 

“But I know how to wait:  if I have not learnt anything else, I have learnt how to wait.  And some day I shall be free.  And then . . .”

CHAPTER Il.

BERNARDINE BEGINS HER BOOK.

AFTER the announcement of Mrs. Allitsen’s death, Bernardine lived in a misery of suspense.  Every day she scanned the obituary, fearing to find the record of another death, fearing and yet wishing to know.  The Disagreeable Man had yearned for his freedom these many years, and now he was at liberty to do what he chose with his poor life.  It was of no value to him.  Many a time she sat and shuddered.  Many a time she began to write to him.  Then she remembered that after all he had cared nothing for her companionship.  He would not wish to hear from her.  And besides, what had she to say to him?