In one hour Majendie had learnt more about his wife than he had found out in the year he had lived with her; and the doctor had found out more about Majendie than he had learnt in the ten years he had been practising in Scale.
And upstairs in her drawing-room, little Mrs. Gardner waited impatiently for her husband to come back and finish the very interesting conversation that Majendie had interrupted.
"Who is the fiend," she said, "who's been keeping you all this time? One whole hour he's been."
"The fiend, my dear, is Mr. Majendie." The doctor's face was thoughtful.
"Is he ill?"
"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."