"Yes! Yes, he did!" she said, with sudden agitation. "He used to—listen to me."
"Good heavens, don't hold that up against him! Don't I listen to you?"
"Oh, but you never let me think you agree with me! I always know you don't."
"He agrees far more than I do."
"No," she said, with a somber look. "He just let me talk. He didn't care. The things that were real to me weren't real to him. His real things were—what's happening now. The baby, and Laura. Is it so with all of you? Don't you ever care with your minds?"
He stopped tickling Zip, and looked out over the lake with narrowing eyes; after a while he said, gently:
"I think the caring with the mind comes second. When a man falls in love, the mind has nothing to do with it. Sometimes it reinforces the heart, so to speak; when that happens, you have the perfect marriage—which isn't awfully common. It's apt to be just the heart; which gets pretty dull after a while. But just the head is arid."
"He would have found just my head,—arid?" she pondered.
He looked straight at her, and said, quietly: "I think he would."
There was a long pause.