"and the loneliness of it--the loneliness of it!"

"Shall I read to you?" she asked kindly. She did not know what to say
to him.

"I want to talk first," he replied. "I want to talk first to some one
who is not paid for talking to me. I have often watched you, and
wondered who you were. Why do you look so sad? No one is waiting for
you to die?"

"Don't talk like that!" she said; and she bent over him and arranged
the cushions for him more comfortably. He looked just like a great lank
tired child.

"Are you one of my wife's friends?" he asked.

"I don't suppose I am," she answered gently; "but I like her, all the
same. Indeed, I like her very much. And I think her beautiful!"

"Ah, she is beautiful!" he said eagerly. "Doesn't she look splendid in
her furs? By Jove, you are right! She is a beautiful woman. I am proud
of her!"

Then the smile faded from his face.

"Beautiful," he said half to himself, "but hard."

"Come now," said Bernardine; "you are surrounded with books and
newspapers. What shall I read to you?"