"But—I am not smiling!"
Nor was she; and, seeing her quiet gravity and wonder, he was surprised that he had imagined it.
"I must tell you," she said, "that though I took such a fancy to Doctor Isaacson, I don't think he is like you; I don't think he is a psychologist."
"You think me a psychologist?" said Nigel, in very honest surprise.
"Yes, and I'll tell you why, if you'll promise not to be offended."
"Please—please do."
"I think one reads character as much with the eyes of the heart as with the eyes of the brain. You use two pairs of eyes in your reading. But I am not sure that Doctor Isaacson does."
"Why did you ask me not to be offended? You meant to put it differently. And you would have been right. Isaacson is a brilliant man, and I am not. But he has as much heart as I, although he has so much more brain than I. And the stronger each is, the better for a man."
"But the brain—oh, it has such a tendency to overshadow, to browbeat the heart. In its strength it so often grows arrogant. The juste milieu—I think you have it. Be content, and never let your brain cry out for more, lest your heart should have to put up with less."
"You think too well of me," he said; "much too well."