"

"No; but I think he would have been if he hadn't come to me. I've been
revising my opinion of Majendie to-night. Between you and me, our friend
the Canon is a very dangerous old woman. Don't you go and believe those
tales he's told you."

"I don't believe the tales," said Mrs. Gardner, "but I can't help
believing poor Mrs. Majendie's face. _That_ tells a tale, if you like."

"Poor Mrs. Majendie's face is a face of poor Mrs. Majendie's own making,
I'm inclined to think."

"I don't think Mrs. Majendie would make faces. I'm sure she isn't happy."

"Are you? Well then, if you're fond of her, I think you'd better try and
see a little more of her, Rosy. You can help her a good deal better than
I can now."

Professional honour forbade him to say more than that. He passed to a
more absorbing topic.

"I must say I can't see the force of this fellow's reasoning. What's
that?"

"I thought I heard baby crying."

"You didn't. It was the cat. You must learn the difference, my dear.
Don't you see that these pragmatists are putting the cart before the
horse? Conduct is one of the things to be explained. How can you take it,
then, as the ground of the explanation?"

"I don't," said Mrs. Gardner.

"But you do," said Dr. Gardner. It was in such bickerings that they
lived and moved and had their happy being. Each was the possessor of a
strenuous soul, made harmless by its extreme simplicity. They were united
by their love of argument, divided only by their adoration of each other.
They now plunged with joy into the heart of a vast metaphysical
contention; and Majendie, his conduct and the explanation of it, were
forgotten until another cry was heard and, this time, Mrs. Gardner fled.

She came back full of reproach. "Oh, Philip, to think that you can't
recognise the voice of your little son!"

Dr. Gardner looked guilty. "I really thought," said he, "it was the cat."
He hated these interruptions.

He looked for Mrs. Gardner to take up the thread of the delicious
argument where she had dropped it; but something had reminded Mrs.
Gardner that she must write a note to Mrs. Majendie. She sat down and
wrote it at once while she remembered. She could think of nothing to say
but, "When will you come and take tea with me, and see my little son?"

Anne came that week, and saw the little son, and rejoiced over him. She
kept on coming to see him. She always had been fond of Mrs. Gardner, now
she was growing fonder of her than eve