So she's waiting for somebody to die, again, and this one is younger. While she's since grown older. Great.
"What are you going to do when he does? In general, I mean."
"Celebrate," he suggests. "No - I don't know. A lot of things are going to be different. It's hard to say what sort of a Duke I'll be."
Although she does say:
"You've been very successful at not frightening me. Unless something changes I think we could have ordinary conversations without me thinking you're about to snap if I say the wrong thing."
"I think so." It occurs to her to ask: "Do you need your bandages changed or are they okay for now?"
When she comes back, he is sitting on one of the couches in his little front room, looking slightly despondent.
"You could talk to me," she mentions. "If you want, if it'd help."
"I don't know," he says. "I don't know if it would help - I don't know what there is to say."
Sure, that's her experience, too, but that was because she was the only servant in a household in the middle of nowhere. If they'd lived in the city she could have lingered longer here or there, made friends. And she has her drawings, which as far as she knows are not a common outlet.
"That's a pity." She gets the last of the old bandages unpeeled, starts wrapping him up in new ones, making little ch noises at the progress of healing but no comment.
"I guess. I've never really missed it, but maybe I just don't know what I'm missing."
She shrugs. "It's supposed to help, it's supposed to be important. In general."
"Yeah, but that doesn't tell me - how, you know?" How it helps, how to do it, either one.
"Yeah." She shrugs. "Like I said - you're doing a very good job not scaring me - if you do it 'wrong' you get more chances. If you want to try; I'm not clear if you do."
"Okay. I'm not going anywhere."