He paused, looked about the room, and stroked his ear. Then, in a grave tone,—
“My own ideal of marriage involves perfect freedom on both sides. Of course it could only be realized where conditions are favourable; poverty and other wretched things force us so often to sin against our best beliefs. But there are plenty of people who might marry on these ideal terms. Perfect freedom, sanctioned by the sense of intelligent society, would abolish most of the evils we have in mind. But women must first be civilized; you are quite right in that.”
The door opened, and Miss Barfoot came in. She glanced from one to the other, and without speaking gave her hand to Everard.
“How is your patient?” he asked.
“A little better, I think. It is nothing dangerous. Here’s a letter from your brother Tom. Perhaps I had better read it at once; there may be news you would like to hear.”
She sat down and broke the envelope. Whilst she was reading the letter to herself, Rhoda quietly left the room.
“Yes, there is news,” said Miss Barfoot presently, “and of a disagreeable kind. A few weeks ago—before writing, that is—he was thrown off a horse and had a rib fractured.”
“Oh? How is he going on?”
“Getting right again, he says. And they are coming back to England; his wife’s consumptive symptoms have disappeared, of course, and she is very impatient to leave Madeira. It is to be hoped she will allow poor Tom time to get his rib set. Probably that consideration doesn’t weigh much with her. He says that he is writing to you by the same mail.”
“Poor old fellow!” said Everard, with feeling. “Does he complain about his wife?”