And that was really the only thing that had been said. But they had not lived so many years in silence, side by side, without learning to hear each other speak though both were silent. They knew, without speaking, what either said, silently in his heart. Only now, though the old man himself was thinking of Henri that night, he did not know what his wife was saying to him, silently, without words, in that one sigh; and this was because he did not read that strange book and never heard the strange voices. Therefore he sought for a word to say and found it very difficult to find a word, but at last he did speak and said, simply:
“What is it?”
He did not look up, went on reading his book as he spoke.
Then the old woman’s aching feet fidgeted still more nervously on their stool; the bent shoulders shivered more nervously under their little black shawl; and she began to cry, softly.
“Come, what is it?”
He pretended to go on reading his book, because talking and crying were so difficult, and because it was easier to pretend to go on reading.
The old woman said, because his old voice had spoken gently:
“I should like to go to Henri, to-morrow.”
Now they were both silent; and the old man went on reading; and the old woman, waiting for his answer, ceased crying, ceased moving her feet, her shoulders. And, after a silence, the old man said:
