So Bernardine dusted books and sometimes sold them. All the time she
thought of the Disagreeable Man. She missed him in her life. She had
never loved before, and she loved him. The forlorn figure rose before
her, and her eyes filled with tears. Sometimes the tears fell on the
books, and spotted them.
Still, on the whole she was bright; but she found things difficult. She
had lost her old enthusiasms, and nothing yet had taken their place.
She went back to the circle of her acquaintances, and found that she
had slipped away from touch with them. Whilst she had been ill, they
had been busily at work on matters social and educational and political.
She thought them hard, the women especially: they thought her weak.
They were disappointed in her; she was now looking for the more human
qualities in them, and she, too, was disappointed.
"You have changed," they said to her: "but then of course you have been
ill, haven't you?"
With these strong, active people, to be ill and useless is a reproach.
And Bernardine felt it as such. But she had changed, and she herself
perceived it in many ways. It was not that she was necessarily better,
but that she was different; probably more human, and probably less self-
confident.
Pages:
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167