When Malvina his wife died, people said: "He will miss her."
But he did not seem to miss her: he took his breakfast, his pinch of snuff, his Gibbon, in precisely the same way as before, and in the same quantities.
When Bernardine first fell ill, people said: "He will be sorry. He is fond of her in his own queer way."
But he did not seem to be sorry. He did not understand anything about illness. The thought of it worried him; so he put it from him. He remembered vaguely that Bernardine's father had suddenly become ill, that his powers had all failed him, and that he lingered on, just a wreck of humanity, and then died. That was twenty years ago. Then he thought of Bernardine, and said to himself, "History repeats itself." That was all.
Unkind? No; for when it was told him that she must go away, he looked at her wonderingly, and then went out. It was very rarely that he went out. He came back with fifty pounds.
"When that is done," he told her, "I can find more."
When she went away, people said: "He will be lonely."
But he did not seem to be lonely. They asked him once, and he said:
"I always have Gibbon."
And when she came back, they said: "He will be glad."
But her return seemed to make no difference to him.