Mrs. Gardner's bridal aspect had not disappeared with the advent of her motherhood. She was not more wrapped up in the baby than she was in Dr. Gardner and his metaphysics. She even admitted to Anne that the baby had been something of a disappointment. Anne was sitting in the nursery with her when Mrs. Gardner ventured on this confidence.
"You know I'd rather have had a little daughter."
Anne confessed that her own yearning was for a little son.
"Oh," said Mrs. Gardner, "I wouldn't have him different now. He's going to have as happy a life as ever I can give him. I've got so much to make up for."
"To make up for?" Anne wondered what little Mrs. Gardner could possibly have to make up for.
"Well, you see it's a shocking confession to make; but I didn't care for him at all before he came. I didn't want him. I didn't want anybody but Philip, and Philip didn't want anybody but me. Are you horrified?"
"I think I am," said Anne. She had difficulty in believing that dear little Mrs. Gardner could ever have taken this abnormal, this monstrous attitude.
"You see our life was so perfect as it was. And we have so little time to be together, because of his tiresome patients. I grudged every minute taken from him. And, when I knew that this little creature was coming, I sat down and cried with rage. I felt that he was going to spoil everything, and keep me from Philip. I hadn't a scrap of tenderness for him, poor little darling."
"Oh," said Anne.
"I hadn't really. I was quite happy with my husband." She paused, feeling that the ground under her was perilous. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this, dear Mrs. Majendie. I've never told another soul. But I thought, perhaps, you ought to know."