“I wanted you to know—somehow,” she replied, turning to him.
“She is at home now?” he asked.
“Yes, she would go home, to tell her mother herself. Poor Bid!” she sighed, and glanced at the letter on her lap.
“What is she going to do? She will write, of course. She must write,” Carey said.
“She talked of teaching again, if possible; but she means to write. Yes! I believe she will do great things now she is free!” There was exultation in Helen’s soft voice. “Her work has been at a standstill for three years,—he hated it, you know, or pretended to. He is one of those men who can’t endure women to have brains. He says, quite openly and seriously, they should be purely ornamental. I think he was jealous of Bridget. Poor Bid! Poor Bid!” she repeated, tenderly.
There was another pause.
“They are to be separated—legally, I think?” Carey asked.
“Yes. Ah, here’s father!” she exclaimed, as the door opened, and Dr. Mansfield came in with outstretched, welcoming hands.
“You’re tired, father. I shall tell Evans to send you in a cup of tea,” Helen said, going to the door.