“Geniuses usually are,” Latham interrupted.
Angela ignored this as it deserved, and he himself thought it feeble and regretted it as soon as he had perpetrated it.
“He’s a genius—and his uncle throttles it. Now, I want you to make Richard Bransby behave—you and Helen. You can, you two; together you can do anything with him.”
“Oh, Mrs. Hilary, please listen to me,” the physician was genuinely alarmed, “on no account must Mr. Bransby be bothered or irritated—positively on none.”
She studied him for a moment. “So,” she said slowly—“as ill as that—poor Helen.”
She did not say, “Poor Mr. Bransby,” and Latham liked her for the nice justice of her differentiation.
“And that’s why you stay here so much.”
Latham made no reply—and she seemed to expect none. She had affirmed; she had asked no question. Really she had some very satisfactory points—most satisfactory!
Then she gave a surprising little cry. “Oh! I am so sorry—so sorry for Helen.”
“I hope,” the doctor began, but she paid no attention to him whatever.