"I am free to do what I choose," he said. "My mother is dead."
"I know," Bernardine said gently. "But you are not free."
He made no answer to that, but slipped into the chair.
"You look tired," he said. "What have you been doing?"
"I have been dusting the books," she answered, smiling at him. "You remember you told me I should be content to do that. The very oldest and shabbiest have had my tenderest care. I found the shop in disorder. You see it now."
"I should not call it particularly tidy now," he said grimly. "Still,
I suppose you have done your best. Well, and what else?"
"I have been trying to take care of my old uncle," she said. "We are just beginning to understand each other a little. And he is beginning to feel glad to have me. When I first discovered that, the days became easier to me. It makes us into dignified persons when we find out that there is a place for us to fill."
"Some people never find it out," he said.
"Probably, like myself, they went on for a long time, without caring," she answered. "I think I have had more luck than I deserve."
"Well," said the Disagreeable Man. "And you are glad to take up your life again?"