ABSTRACT
A Telegram, the day after Bridget left her husband’s house, prepared Mrs. Ruan for her daughter’s arrival. She sat waiting for her in the drawing-room in the afternoon, in a flutter of pleasurable excitement. Bridget’s somewhat infrequent visits were the bright patches of colour in her existence. To go to church with her on Sunday, to hear the excited whisperings from the Wilbys’ pew just at the back, to see all eyes fixed on them as they walked up the aisle, to know that Bridget’s picture-hats, her well-cut gowns, and dainty shoes were being eagerly scanned, and would serve as food for voluble, envious criticism on the homeward walk from the members of every family in Rilchester, was to her the breath of life. The greetings after church were only less pleasurable. They generally walked home with the Jenkins family; and it was with hardly concealed joy that Mrs. Ruan observed the silent awe with which Mr Jenkins, usually jovial to the point of fatigue, from time to time regarded her child – the Bridget he used to patronise.
