"And you have loved, Uncle Zerviah? And you were loved?"
"Yes, indeed," he answered, softly.
"Then you would not laugh at me if I were to unburden my heart to you?"
For answer, she felt the touch of his old hand on her head. And thus encouraged, she told him the story of the Disagreeable Man. She told him how she had never before loved any one until she loved the Disagreeable Man.
It was all very quietly told, in a simple and dignified manner: nevertheless, for all that, it was an unburdening of her heart; her listener being an old scholar who had almost forgotten the very name of love.
She was still talking, and he was still listening, when the shop door creaked. Zerviah crept quietly away, and Bernardine looked up.
The Disagreeable Man stood at the counter.
"You little thing," he said, "I have come to see you. It is eight years since I was in England."
Bernardine leaned over the counter.
"And you ought not to be here now," she said, looking at his thin face.
He seemed to have shrunk away since she had last seen him.