That seemed to break the ice a little. The next morning when she was arranging some books in the old shop, he came in and watched her.
"It is a comfort to have you," he said. That was all he said, but
Bernardine flushed with pleasure.
"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.