Herr Dremmel agreed at once that he was right just there, and pushed the point of kissing back a little further. The Baron went after him with more facts. Herr Dremmel again agreed, and went back further. In this way they came at last to the Garden of Eden, beyond which the Baron refused to budge, alleging that further back than that no Christian could go; and even in that he repudiated the kiss. He was convinced, though he concealed it, that at no period of human thought could his and Herr Dremmel's opinions, for example, have kissed. But it was an amiable view, and Herr Dremmel was extremely polite and was bent evidently on peace, and the Baron, recognising this, became less distrustful. He even contributed a thought of his own at last, after having been negatively occupied in dissecting Herr Dremmel's, and said that in his opinion it was details that made life difficult. The Baroness, who loved him and overheard him, was anxious he should have more coffee with plenty of milk in it after this. "Men," she explained to Ingeborg in careful English as she poured it out, "need much nourishment because of all this head-work." "I suppose they do," said Ingeborg. "When I was first married I remember it was my chief pride and joy that at last I had some one of my very own to nourish." "Oh?" said Ingeborg. "It is an instinct," said the Baroness, who had the air of administering a lesson, "in a true woman. She wishes to nourish. And naturally the joy of nourishing two is double the joy of nourishing one." "I suppose it is," said Ingeborg, who did not quite follow. "When my first-born--" "Oh, yes," said Ingeborg, glad to understand. "When my first-born was laid in my arms I cannot express, Frau Pastor, what happiness I had in being given yet another human being to nourish." "I suppose it was delightful," said Ingeborg, politely sympathetic. The Baroness's eyes drooped a moment inquiringly from Ingeborg's face to her body. "For six years," she went on, after a pause, "I had fresh reason for happiness regularly at Christmas." "I suppose you have the loveliest Christmases here," said Ingeborg. "Like the ones in books. With trees." "Trees? Naturally we have trees. But I had babies as well. Every Christmas for six years regularly my Christmas present to my dear husband was able to be a baby." "What?" said Ingeborg, opening her eyes. "A fresh one?" "Naturally it was fresh. One does not have the same baby twice." "No, of course not. But--how did you hide it till Christmas day?" "It could not, naturally," said the Baroness stiffly, "be as much a surprise as a present that was not a baby would have been, but it was for all practical purposes hidden till Christmas. On that day it was born." "Oh, but I think that was very wonderful," said Ingeborg, genuinely pleased by such neatness. She leaned forward in her enthusiasm and clasped her hands about her knees.