“I saw him to-day, as I came across the park,” she said presently, very quietly. “He was with that woman—Mrs. Gefferson. You know who I mean. They didn’t see me.”
Helen turned her head. “You poor child,” she said gently. “London isn’t big enough, after all.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Bridget returned, in a colorless voice. “Perhaps it’s dreadful that I have so little feeling left. I looked at him to-day as though he were a stranger. I couldn’t realize that I had lived with him for three years. Do you remember,” she went on, after a moment, “the night we saw the ‘Doll’s House,’ there was a derisive laugh when Nora says, ‘I can’t stay in the house with a strange man’? How little imagination people have! That’s how I feel. He is a strange man; I have nothing to do with him. Thank Heaven, the first shameful feeling of it has all gone. I’m quite indifferent now. Love?” She gave a short, scornful laugh.
Helen winced. “You have never loved yet, Bridget,” she said, gravely.
Bridget turned to her with a swift movement.
“Ah, I’m a brute to speak so,” she exclaimed softly. “You and Jim—yes, that is different. I’m so glad it’s different.” She rose impulsively, and put her arms round her friend.
Helen still looked troubled. “Bid, you puzzle me. Shall I ever know such a mass of contradictions, I wonder? Why did you laugh about—about—? I should never have said that I feared it for you,” she went on, desperately; “but, Bid, it is not an impossibility that some day—and then I should be so afraid!” She dropped her voice, and hurried over the last sentence.
“Dear, I laughed—why did I laugh? Just out of mischief, because I can so easily tell your thoughts. I wasn’t thinking of the importance of what I said—just because that sort of thing seems so far from me—so impossible. I don’t want it!” she added vehemently. “I won’t have it. You said I had never loved. I believe you are right. I think I never did. I was dazzled; and what I took for the sun was just very poor electric light, that had a trick of going out suddenly. I don’t want the experience twice over,” she went on, shuddering. “I pray Heaven I may never have it. I’ve been talking to Mr. Carey about wanting every experience life has to offer,” she said, speaking slowly, “and yet I’m praying Heaven not to send me the supreme, the most tremendous of all possible experiences. Strange, isn’t it?”
She raised her eyes to Helen’s, and saw they were full of tears.
“You said once, when you were a precocious little girl, that Heaven never by any chance answered prayers,” Helen said, trying to speak lightly. Her voice was not steady, however.