"There isn't any question about it," interrupted Mrs. Thayer decidedly. "That poor child stays where she is now."
"Oh, but, Edith, this sort of thing can't go on forever, you know," remonstrated the doctor nervously, his forehead drawn into an anxious frown.
"I wasn't talking about forever," returned the lady, with tranquil confidence. "I was talking about now, to-day, next week, next year, if it's necessary."
"Certainly—if Burke Denby hasn't come to his senses by that time. Why, Frank Gleason, don't you suppose I'd do anything, everything, to help that child keep her baby? She worships it. Besides, it's going to be the making of her."
"I know; but if they could be brought together—Burke and his wife, I mean—it seems as if—as if—" The man came to a helpless pause.
"Frank, see here," began Edith Thayer resolutely. "You know as well as I do that those two people have been wretched together for a year or more. They are not suited to each other. They weren't in the first place. To make matters worse, they were both nothing but petted, spoiled children, no more fit to take on the responsibilities of marriage than my Bess and Charlie would be. All their lives they'd had their own dolls and shotguns to do as they pleased with; and when it came to marrying and sharing everything, including their time and their tempers, they flew into bits—both of them."
"Yes, I know," sighed the man, still with a troubled frown.
"Well, they're apart now. Never mind who was to blame for it, or whether it was or wasn't a wise move. It's done. They're apart. They've got a chance to think things over—to stand back and get a perspective, as it were. Helen thinks she can metamorphose herself into the perfect wife that Burke will love. Perhaps she can. Let us say she has one chance in a million of doing so;—well, I mean she shall have that chance, especially as the alternative—that is, her going back home now—is sure to be nothing but utter wretchedness all round."
Frank Gleason shook his head.