Helen was at the piano, playing softly. On the opposite side of the fire the Professor lay back in his reading-chair, gently tapping the tips of his long fingers together in time to the melody. At his side his sister sat, with a mass of soft white wool in her lap, her wooden knitting needles clicking softly now and again. The Professor and his sister were both somewhat elderly people. Dr. Mansfield was forty before he married the young wife who died at Helen’s birth, and Miss Mansfield, who was two or three years his senior, had lived with him since Helen was a baby. Bridget glanced at them both every now and again. She noticed the Professor’s broad forehead, the masses of whitening hair above it, his keen eyes, and thin, humorous mouth.
A picture of her father’s face as he sat, pipe in hand, with a sporting paper in one hand and a glass of grog at his elbow, rose to her mind for a second in vivid contrast.
She hurriedly put it from her, with a sudden shamed, disloyal feeling that translated itself in a frown and an involuntary gesture of repudiation. The Professor’s quick eyes noted the movement, and his thoughts wandered from the music to speculate upon its cause.
Helen rose from the piano a minute later, and came forward into the firelight.
“The room has one of its pretty moods to-day, hasn’t it, father?” she said, glancing about her, as she settled herself on the low curb before the hearth, close to the Professor’s chair.
“Don’t you notice that rooms have their pretty days just as people do, Bid?” she asked.
“I believe every day is a pretty day for this room,” Bridget returned, with a contented sigh. “It’s sweet. Oh, and the books!”
Her lap was full of volumes, which she turned over with eager fingers, as she spoke.
“What is this? Keats! how delicious!—in this dear little volume, I mean. They have such a hideous edition at the Free Library. Oh, Helen! and this charming Herrick with the dainty green and gold cover! And what’s this? George Meredith—Oh! a poem? Well, I tried to read Richard Feverel—that’s his, isn’t it?—the other day, but I didn’t like it much. I couldn’t understand what he was talking about,—what he meant, you know.”
The Professor laughed a little.