She crossed her hands in her lap and the light faded in her eyes. The glow of the old room withdrew from her face, her words became restful as her thoughts.
Finn looked at her, but did not see this. For him, too, the fairy-tale was over. He was sitting in his chair again with bent head and his hands open on his knees.
And, without their doing anything or thinking of it, they came in their usual way to talk together. It was not any interchange of thoughts and still less a contest of opinions. They said nearly the same thing and, wherever the thoughts of the one roamed, he found the other’s. Often their words were solemn, but never powerful. Often the one was silent and agreed with the other. Many times they sat long without saying anything and thought they had told each other everything.
“Look,” said Finn, pointing out of the window. “How hideous!”
A hearse came trotting across the square.
He moved in his chair and said:
“A hearse should always drive at a foot’s pace, solemnly and ceremoniously ... always ... as though they were only driving the horses to water. And soldiers should always hold themselves stiff and starched, keeping step and time, even when they are taking their shoes to the cobbler’s. Then it would all be easier.”
He was silent for a while. Then he slowly turned his face to her:
“I was talking about it to father the other day,” he said. “I happened to say something of the kind.”
She looked at him in surprise.