The greatest thing I had to give up, I gave up: my
death. More could not be required of any one!"
He paused again, and Bernardine was silent from mere awe.
"But freedom comes at last," he said, "and some day I shall be free.
When my mother dies, I shall be free. She is old. If I were to die, I
should break her heart, or, rather she would fancy that her heart was
broken. (And it comes to the same thing). And I should not like to give
her more grief than she has had. So I am just waiting, it may be months,
or weeks, or years. But I know how to wait: if I have not learnt
anything else, I have learnt how to wait. And then" . . .
Bernardine had unconsciously put her hand on his arm; her face was full
of suffering.
"And then?" she asked, with almost painful eagerness.
"And then I shall follow your Dutchman's example," he said deliberately.
Bernardine's hand fell from the Disagreeable Man's arm.
She shivered.
"You are cold, you little thing," he said, almost tenderly for him.
"You are shivering."
"Was I?" she said, with a short laugh. "I was wondering when you would
get your freedom, and whether you would use it in the fashion you now
intend!"
"Why should there be any doubt?" he asked.
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