“It is an important subject,” responded the Doctor, with dignity. “I have often discussed it with my friend, Herr Kaufmann. He is a very fine friend to have.”
“Yes,” said Lynn, “he is. It is only lately that I have learned to appreciate him.”
“One must grow to understand him,” mused the Doctor. “At first, I did not. I thought him rough, queer, and full of sarcasm. But afterward, I saw that his harshness was only a mask—the bark, if I may say so. Beneath it, he has a heart of gold.”
“People,” began Margaret, avoiding the topic, “always seek their own level, just as water does. That is why there is class.”
“But for a long time, they do not find it,” objected the Doctor. “Miss Iris, for instance. Her people were of the common sort, and those with whom she lived afterward were worse still. She”—by the unconscious reverence in his voice, they knew whom he meant—“she taught her all the fineness she has, and that is much. It is an argument for environment, rather than heredity.”
Lynn left the room abruptly, unable to bear the talk of Iris.
“I wish,” said the Doctor, at length, “I wish you knew Herr Kaufmann. Would you like it if I should bring him to call?”
“No!” cried Margaret. “It is too soon,” she added, desperately. “Too soon after——”
The Doctor nodded. “I understand,” he said. “It was a mistake on my part, for which you must pardon me. I only thought you might be a help to each other. Franz, too, has sorrowed.”
“Has he?” asked Margaret, her lips barely moving.