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 ever. In her happy presence she felt wonderfully at peace. There had been a time when the spectacle of Mrs. Gardner's happiness would have given her sharp pangs of jealousy; but that time was over now for Anne. She liked to sit and look at her and watch the happiness flowering in Mrs. Gardner's face. She thought Mrs. Gardner's face was more beautiful than any woman's she had ever seen, except Edie's. Edie's face was perfect; but Mrs. Gardner's was a simple oval that sacrificed perfection in the tender amplitude of her chin. There were no lines on it; for Mrs. Gardner was never worried, nor excited, nor perplexed. How could she be worried when Dr. Gardner was well and happy? Or excited, when, having Dr. Gardner, there was nothing left to be excited about? Or perplexed, when Dr. Gardner held the solution of all problems in his mighty brain?