“No, not in this girl’s case,” Dr. Mansfield replied decidedly. “She’s too clever. She would have carved her own path eventually in spite of everything. She would have been fretted to death by the petty routine of a third-class day-school, and that would have been an additional burden.
“No, she’s had a start in life, of course, though a very little one. She’ll go through great tribulation—she’s just the sort. But, nevertheless, the trivial round, the common task was always out of the question for Bridget Ruan, so she must take what the gods send her, and if I’m not mistaken, she’ll take it unflinchingly.”
“She interests you, evidently,” Stevens said.
“Yes, I own it. Perhaps she’ll interest you too, one day, professionally. Helen says she writes stories. I wonder what they’re like. I imagine them crude to the last degree, and almost as clever.”
“I should like to look at them.”
“Well, ask her. She’ll be overcome with shyness, but she’ll let you see them. She wants to stop in London. I must see what I can do for her.”
There was a pause. “By the way,” the Professor asked suddenly, “what of that article of yours on bimetallism? I saw some account of it in the Chronicle to-day.” Stevens replied, and the conversation drifted into other channels.
Bridget returned to Rilchester at the end of a fortnight, full of hope and vague, tremulous excitement. To Dr. Mansfield she had confided her intention of fitting herself to earn her own living. She had finally decided to prepare herself for teaching in a public school; and the Professor, on mentally reviewing the possible occupations open to women, had decided that she had probably chosen the most human of them.
“And I wouldn’t say that to every one,” he remarked with a smile. “I’ve met one or two High School teachers in my time,” he paused. “But I don’t think you’ll easily become an Instruction-machine, my dear; and as far as I can judge, human beings ought to be more inspiring than an office table, and long envelopes and halfpenny stamps.