"You are glad it is all finished?" the nurse said.
"Yes," he answered a little wearily. His mind had dwelt on Mr. Aked that day, and the lonely futility of the man's life had touched him with chill, depressing effect. Moreover, now it came to the point, he rather dreaded than desired that first interview with Adeline after her uncle's death. He feared that despite any service he had rendered, they were not much more than acquaintances. He morbidly conjectured what she would say to him and how he would reply. But he was glad when the nurse left him alone at the door of Adeline's room. He knocked rather louder than he had intended, and after hesitating a second walked in. Adeline was seated in an armchair near the window, fully dressed in black, with a shawl over her shoulders. Her back was towards him, but he could see that she was writing a letter on her knee. She looked round suddenly as the door opened, and gave a little "Oh!" at the same time lifting her hands. Her face was pale, her hair flat, and her eyes large and glittering. He went up to her.
"Mr. Larch!" She held his hand in her thin white one with a soft, weak pressure, silently gazing at him while tears gathered in her upturned eyes. Richard trembled in every part of his body; he could not speak, and wondered what was the matter with him.
"Mr. Larch, you have been very kind. I shall never be able to thank you."
"I hope you won't bother about any thanks," he said. "Are you better?" And yet he wished her to say more.
With apparent reluctance she loosed his hand, and he sat down near her.
"What should I have done without you!... Tell me about to-day. You can't think how relieved I am now that it is over—the funeral, I mean."
He said there was nothing to tell.
"Were there many other funerals?"