IV

At a quarter to eleven that night Meyer Isaacson and Nigel Armine came

down the bit of carpet that was unrolled to the edge of the pavement in

front of Lady Somerson's door, and got into the former's electric

brougham. As it moved off noiselessly, the Doctor said:

"You had a long talk with Mrs. Derringham in the drawing-room."

"Yes," replied Armine, rather curtly.

He relapsed into silence, leaning back in his corner.

"I like her," the Doctor continued, after a pause.

"Do you?"

"And you--don't."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I feel it; I gather it from the way you said 'yes.'"

Armine moved, and leaned slightly forwards.

"Isn't she rather _mauvaise langue_?" he asked.

"Mrs. Derringham? I certainly don't think her so."

"She's one of the disbelievers in women you spoke of after dinner; one

of the traitresses in the woman's camp. Why can't women hang together?"

"They do sometimes."

"Yes, when there's a woman to be hounded down. They hang together when

there's a work of destruction on hand. But do they hang together when

there's a work of construction to be done?"

"Do you mean a reputation to be built up?"

Armine pulled his moustache. In the electric light Meyer Isaacson could

see that his blue eyes were shining.

"Because," Meyer Isaacson continued, "if you do mean that, I should be

inclined to say that each of us must build up his or her reputation

individually for himself or herself."

"We need help in nearly all our buildings-up, and how often, how

damnably often, we don't get it!"

"Was Mrs. Derringham specially down upon some particular woman

to-night?"

"Yes, she was."

"Do you care to tell me upon whom?"

"It was Mrs. Chepstow."

"You were talking about Mrs. Chepstow?" Isaacson said slowly. "The

famous Mrs. Chepstow?"

"Famous!" said Armine. "I hardly see that Mrs. Chepstow is a famous

woman. She is not a writer, a singer, a painter, an actress. She does

nothing that I ever heard of. I shouldn't call such a woman famous. I

daresay her name is known to lots of people. But this is the age of

chatterboxes, and of course--"

At this moment the brougham rolled on to the rubber pavement in front of

the Savoy Hotel and stopped before the entrance.

As he was getting out and going into the hall, Meyer Isaacson remembered

that the letter Mrs. Chepstow had written to him asking for an

appointment had been stamped "Savoy Hotel." She had been staying at the

hotel then. Was she staying there now? He had never heard Armine mention

her before, but his feminine intuition suddenly connected Armine's

words, "I'm very happy at the Savoy," with the invitation to sup there,

and the conversation about Mrs. Chepstow just reported to him by his

friend. Armine knew Mrs. Chepstow. They were going to meet her in the

restaurant to-night. Meyer Isaacson felt sure of it.

They left their coats in the cloak-room and made their way to the

restaurant, which as yet was almost empty. The _maitre d'hotel_ came

forward to Armine, bowing and smiling, and showed them to a table in a

corner. Meyer Isaacson saw that it was laid for only two. He was

surprised, but he said nothing, and they sat down.

"I really can't eat supper, Armine," he said. "Don't order it for me."

"Have a little soup, at least, and a glass of champagne?"

Without waiting for a reply, he gave an order.

"We might have sat in the hall, but it is more amusing in here.

Remember, I haven't been in London--seen the London show--for over eight

months. One meets a lot of old friends and acquaintances in places like

this."

Meyer Isaacson opened his lips to say that Armine would be far more

likely to meet his friends during the season if he went to parties in

private houses. America was beginning to stream in, mingled with English

country people "up" for a few days, and floating representatives of the

nations of the earth. In this heterogeneous crowd he saw no one whom he

knew, and Armine had not so far recognized anybody. But he shut his lips

without speaking. He realized that Armine had a purpose in coming to the

Savoy to-night, in bringing him. For some reason his friend was trying

to mask that purpose, but it must almost immediately become apparent. He

had only to wait for a few minutes, and doubtless he would know exactly

what it was.

A waiter brought the soup and the champagne.

"If any of the patients to whom I have strictly forbidden supper should

see me now," said the Doctor, "and if they should divine that I have

come straight from a long dinner!--Armine, I am making a heavy sacrifice

on friendship's altar."

"You don't see any patients, I hope?"

"Not as yet," the Doctor answered.

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, he saw Mrs. Chepstow at

some distance from them, coming in at the door. She came in alone. He

looked to see her escort, but, to his surprise, she was not followed by

any one. Holding herself very erect, and not glancing to the right or

left, she walked down the room escorted by the _maitre d'hotel_, passed

close to Armine and the Doctor, went to a small table set in the angle

of a screen not far off, and sat down with her profile turned towards

them. She said a few words to the _maitre d'hotel_. He spoke to a

waiter, then hurried away. Mrs. Chepstow sat very still in her chair,

looking down. She had laid a lace fan beside the knives and glasses that

shone in the electric light. Her right hand rested lightly on it. She

was dressed in black, and wore white gloves, and a diamond comb in her

fair, dyed hair. Her strange, colourless complexion looked

extra-ordinarily delicate and pure from where the two friends were

sitting. There was something pathetic in its whiteness, and in the quiet

attitude of this woman who sat quite alone in the midst of the gay

crowd. Many people stared at her, whispered about her, were obviously

surprised at her solitude; but she seemed quite unconscious that she was

being noticed. And there was a curious simplicity in her

unconsciousness, and in her attitude, which made her seem almost girlish

from a little distance.

"There's Mrs. Chepstow," said a man at the next table to Armine's,

bending over to his companion, a stout and florid specimen from the

City. "And absolutely alone, by Jove!"

"Couldn't get even a kid from Sandhurst to-night, I s'pose," returned

the other. "I wonder she comes in at all if she can't scrape up an

escort. Wonder she has the cheek to do it."

They lowered their voices and leaned nearer to each other. Armine lifted

his glass of champagne to his lips, sipped it, and put it down.

"If you do see any patients, you can explain it's all my fault," he said

to the Doctor. "I will take the blame. But surely you don't have to

follow all your prescriptions?"

His voice was slightly uneven and abstracted, as if he were speaking

merely to cover some emotion he was determined to conceal.

"No. But I ought to set an example of reasonable living, I suppose."

They talked for a few minutes about health, with a curious formality,

like people who are conscious that they are being critically listened

to, or who are, too consciously, listening to themselves. Once or twice

Meyer Isaacson glanced across the room to Mrs. Chepstow. She was eating

her supper slowly, languidly, and always looking down. Apparently she

had not seen him or Armine. Indeed, she did not seem to see any one, but

she was rather sadly unconscious of her surroundings. The Doctor found

himself pitying her, then denying to himself that she merited

compassion. With many others, he wondered at her solitude. To sup thus

alone in a crowded restaurant was to advertise her ill success in the

life she had chosen, her abandonment by man. Why did she do this? He

could not then divine, although afterwards he knew. And he was quietly

astonished. Just at first he expected that she would presently be joined

by some one who was late. But no one came, and no second place was laid

at her table.

Conversation flagged between Armine and him, until the former presently

said:

"I want to introduce you to some one to-night."

"Yes? Who is it?"

He asked, but he already knew.

"Mrs. Chepstow."

The Doctor was on the verge of saying that he was already acquainted

with her, when Armine added:

"I spoke about you to her, and she told me she had never met you."

"When was that?"

"Four days ago, when I was introduced to her, and talked to her for the

first time."

The Doctor did not speak for a minute. Then he said:

"I shall be delighted to be presented to her."

Although he was remarkably truthful with his friends, he was always

absolutely discreet in his professional capacity. He did not know

whether Mrs. Chepstow would wish the fact of her having consulted him

about her health to be spoken of. Therefore he did not mention it. And

as Armine knew that four days ago Mrs. Chepstow and he were strangers,

in not mentioning it he was obliged to leave his friend under the

impression that they were strangers still.

"She is staying in this hotel, and is sitting over there. But of course

you know her by sight," said Armine.

"Oh, yes, I have seen her about."

"I think you will like her, if you can clear your mind of any prejudices

you may have formed against her."

"Why should I be prejudiced against Mrs. Chepstow?"

"People are. No one has a good word for her. Both women and men speak

ill of her."

From the tone of Armine's voice Meyer Isaacson knew that this fact had

prejudiced him in Mrs. Chepstow's favour. There are some men who are

born to defend lost causes, who instinctively turn towards those from

whom others are ostentatiously turning away, moved by some secret

chivalry which blinds their reason, or by a passion of simple human pity

that dominates their hearts and casts a shadow over the brightness of

their intellects. Of these men Nigel Armine was one, and Meyer Isaacson

knew it. He was not much surprised, therefore, when Armine continued:

"They see only the surface of things, and judge by what they see. I

suppose one ought not to condemn them. But sometimes it's--it's devilish

difficult not to condemn cruelty, especially when the cruelty is

directed against a woman. Only to-night Mrs. Derringham--and you say

she's a good sort of woman--"

"Very much so."

"Well, she said to me, 'For such women as Mrs. Chepstow I have no pity,

so don't ask it of me, Mr. Armine.' What a confession, Isaacson!"

"Did she give her reasons?"

"Oh, yes, she tried to. She said the usual thing."

"What was that?"

"She said that Mrs. Chepstow had sold herself body and soul to the Devil

for material things; that she was the typical greedy woman."

"And did she indicate exactly what she meant by the typical greedy

woman?"

"Yes. I will say for her that she was plain-spoken. She said: 'The woman

without ideals, without any feeling for home and all that home means,

the one man, children, peace found in unselfishness, rest in work for

others; the woman who betrays the reputation of her sex by being

absolutely concentrated upon herself, and whose desires only extend to

the vulgar satisfactions brought by a preposterous expenditure of money

on clothes, jewels, yachts, houses, motors, everything that rouses

wonder and admiration in utterly second-rate minds.'"

"There are such women."

"Perhaps there are. But, my dear Isaacson, one has only to look at Mrs.

Chepstow--with unprejudiced eyes, mind you--to see that she could never

be one of them. Even if I had never spoken to her, I should know that

she must have ideals, could never not have them, whatever her life is,

or has been. Physiognomy cannot utterly lie. Look at the line of that

face. Don't you see what I mean?"

They both gazed for a moment at the lonely woman.

"There is, of course, a certain beauty in Mrs. Chepstow's face," the

Doctor said.

"I am not speaking of beauty; I am speaking of ideality, of purity.

Don't you see what I mean? Now, be honest."

"Yes, I do."

"Ah!" said Armine.

The exclamation sounded warmly pleased.

"But that look, I think, is a question merely of line, and of the way

the hair grows. Do you mean to say that you would rather judge a woman

by that than by the actions of her life?"

"No. But I do say that if you examined the life of a woman with a face

like that--the real life--you would be certain to find that it had not

been devoid of actions such as you would expect, actions illustrating

that look of ideality which any one can see. What does Mrs. Derringham

really know of Mrs. Chepstow? She is not personally acquainted with her,

even. She acknowledged that. She has never spoken to her, and doesn't

want to."

"That scarcely surprises me, I confess," the Doctor remarked.

There was a definite dryness in his tone, and Armine noticed it.

"You are prejudiced, I see," he said.

In his voice there was a sound of disappointment.

"I don't exactly know why, but I have always looked upon you as one of

the most fair-minded, broad-minded men I have met, Isaacson," he said.

"Not as one of those who must always hunt with the hounds."

"The question is, What is prejudice? The facts of a life are facts, and

cannot leave one wholly uninfluenced for or against the liver of the

life. If I see a man beating a dog because it has licked his hand, I

draw the inference that he is cruel. Would you say that I am

narrow-minded in doing so? If one does not judge men and women by their

actions, by what is one to judge them? Perhaps you will say, 'Don't

judge them at all.' But it is impossible not to form opinions on people,

and every time one forms an opinion one passes a secret judgment. Isn't

it so?"

"I think feeling enters into the matter. Often one gets an immediate

impression, before one knows anything about the facts of a life. The

facts may seem to give that impression the lie. But is it wrong? I think

very often not. I remember once I heard a woman, and a clever woman, say

of a man whom she knew intimately, 'They accuse him of such and such an

act. Well, if I saw him commit it, I would not believe he had done it!'

Absurd, you will say. And yet is it so absurd? In front of the real man

may there not be a false man, is there not often a false man, like a

mask over a face? And doesn't the false man do things that the real man

condemns? I would often rather judge with my heart than with my eyes,

Isaacson--yes, I would. That woman said a fine thing when she said that,

and she was not absurd, though every one who heard her laughed at her.

When one gets what one calls an impression, one's heart is speaking, is

saying, 'This is the truth.' And I believe the heart, without reasoning,

knows what the truth is."

"And if two people get diametrically different impressions of the same

person? What then? That sometimes happens, you know."

"I don't believe you and I could ever get diametrically different

impressions of a person," said Armine, looking at Mrs. Chepstow; "and

to-night I can't bother myself about the rest of the world."

"Don't you think hearts can be stupid as well as heads? I do. I think

people can be muddle-hearted as well as muddle-headed."

As the Doctor spoke, it seemed to flash upon him that he was passing a

judgment upon his friend--this man whom he admired, whom he almost

loved.

"I should always trust my heart," said Armine. "But I very often

mistrust my head. Won't you have any more champagne?"

"No, thank you."

"What do you say to our joining Mrs. Chepstow? It must be awfully dull

for her, supping all alone. We might go and speak to her. If she doesn't

ask us to sit down, we can go into the hall and have a cigar."

"Very well."

There was neither alacrity nor reluctance in Meyer Isaacson's voice, but

if there had been, Armine would probably not have noticed it. When he

was intent on a thing, he saw little but that one thing. Now he paid the

bill, tipped the waiter, and got up.

"Come along," he said, "and I will introduce you."

He put his hand for an instant on his friend's arm.

"Clear your mind of prejudice, Isaacson," he said, in a low voice. "You

are too good and too clever to be one of the prejudiced crowd. Let your

first impression be a true one."

As the doctor went with his friend to Mrs. Chepstow's table, he did not

tell him that first impression had been already formed in the

consulting-room of the house in Cleveland Square.

V

"Mrs. Chepstow!"

At the sound of Nigel Armine's voice Mrs. Chepstow started slightly,

like a person recalled abruptly from a reverie, looked up, and smiled.

"You are here! I'm all alone. But I was hungry, so I had to brave the

rabble."

"I want to introduce a friend to you. May I?"

"Of course."

Armine moved, and Doctor Isaacson stood by Mrs. Chepstow.

"Doctor Meyer Isaacson, Mrs. Chepstow."

The Doctor scarcely knew whether he had expected Mrs. Chepstow to

recognize him, or whether he had anticipated what actually happened--her

slight bow and murmured "I'm delighted to meet you." But he did know

that he was not really surprised at her treatment of him as an entire

stranger. And he was glad that he had said nothing to Armine of her

visit to Cleveland Square.

"Aren't you going to sit down and talk to me for a little?" Mrs.

Chepstow said. "I'm all alone and horribly dull."

"May we?"

Armine drew up a chair.

"Sit on my other side, Doctor Isaacson. I've heard a great deal about

you. You've made perfect cures of most of my enemies."

There was not the least trace of consciousness in her manner, not the

faintest suspicion of embarrassment in her look, and, as he sat down,

the Doctor found himself admiring the delicate perfection of her deceit,

as he had sometimes admired a subtle _nuance_ in the performance of some

great French actress.

"You ought to hate me then," he said.

"Why? If I don't hate them?"

"Don't you hate your enemies?" asked Armine.

"No; that's a weakness in me. I never could and never shall. Something

silly inside of me invariably finds excuses for people, whatever they

are or do. I'm always saying to myself, 'They don't understand. If they

really knew all the circumstances, they wouldn't hate me. Perhaps they'd

even pity me.' Absurd! A mistake! I know that. Such feelings stand in

the way of success, because they prevent one striking out in one's own

defence. And if one doesn't strike out for oneself, nobody will strike

out for one."

"I don't think that's quite true," Armine said.

"Oh, yes, it is. If you're pugnacious, people think you're plucky, and

they're ready to stand up for you. Whereas, if you forgive easily,

you're not easily forgiven."

"If that is so," Armine said, "why don't you change your tactics?"

As he said this, he glanced at Isaacson, and the Doctor understood that

he was seeking to display to his friend what he believed to be this

woman's character.

"Simply because I can't. I am what I am. I can't change myself, and I

can't act in defiance of the little interior voice. I often try to, for

I don't pretend in the least to be virtuous; but I have to give in. I

know it's weakness. I know the world would laugh at it. But--_que

voulez-vous?_--some of us are the slaves of our souls."

The last sentence seemed almost to be blurted out, so honestly was it

said. But instantly, as if regretting a sincere indiscretion, she added:

"Doctor Isaacson, what an idiot you must think me!"

"Why, Mrs. Chepstow?"

"For saying that. You, of course, think we are the slaves of our

bodies."

"I certainly do not think you an idiot," he could not help saying, with

significance.

"Isaacson is not an ordinary doctor," said Armine. "You needn't be

afraid of him."

"I don't think I'm afraid of anybody, but one doesn't want to make

oneself absurd. And I believe I often am absurd in rating the body too

low. What a conversation!" she added, smiling. "But, as I was all alone

in the crowd, I was thinking of all sorts of things. A crowd makes one

think tremendously, if one is quite alone. It stimulates the brain, I

suppose. So I was thinking a lot of rubbish over my solitary meal."

She looked at the two men apologetically.

"_La femme pense_," she said, and she shrugged her shoulders.

Armine drew his chair a little nearer to her, and this action suddenly

made Doctor Isaacson realize the power that still dwelt in this woman,

the power to govern certain types of men.

"And the man acts," completed Armine.

"And the woman acts, too, and better than the man," the Doctor thought

to himself.

Again his admiration was stirred, this time by the sledge-hammer

boldness of Mrs. Chepstow, by her complete though so secret defiance of

himself.

"But what were you thinking about?" Armine continued, earnestly. "I

noticed how preoccupied you were even when you came into the room."

"Did you? I was thinking about a conversation I had this afternoon.

Oddly enough"--she turned slowly towards Meyer Isaacson--"it was with a

doctor."

"Indeed?" he said, looking her full in the face.

"Yes."

She turned away, and once more spoke to Armine.

"I went this afternoon to a doctor, Mr. Armine, to consult him about a

friend of mine who is ill and obstinate, and we had a most extraordinary

talk about the soul and the body. A sort of fight it was. He thought me

a typical silly woman. I'm sure of that."

"Why?"

"Because I suppose I took a sentimental view of our subject. We women

always instinctively take the sentimental view, you know. My doctor was

severely scientific and frightfully sceptical. He thought me an absurd

visionary."

"And what did you think him?"

"I'm afraid I thought him a crass materialist. He had doctored the body

until he was able to believe only in the body. He referred everything

back to the body. Every emotion, according to him, was only caused by

the terminal of a nerve vibrating in a cell contained in the grey matter

of the brain. I dare say he thinks the most passionate love could be

operated for. And as to any one having an immortal soul--well, I did

dare, being naturally fearless, just to mention the possibility of my

possessing such a thing. But I was really sorry afterwards."

"Tell us why."

"Because it brought upon me such an avalanche of scorn and arguments. I

didn't much mind the scorn, but the arguments bored me."

"Did they convince you?"

"Mr. Armine! Now, did you ever know a woman convinced of anything by

argument?"

He laughed.

"Then you still believe that you have an immortal soul?"

"More, far more, than ever."

She was laughing, too. But, quite suddenly, the laughter died out of

her, and she said, with an earnest face:

"I wouldn't let any one--any one--take some of my beliefs from me."

The tone of her voice was almost fierce in its abrupt doggedness.

"I must have some coffee," she added, with a complete change of tone. "I

sleep horribly badly, and that's why I take coffee. Mere perversity!

Three black coffees, waiter."

"Not for me!" said Meyer Isaacson.

"You must, for once. I hate doing things alone. There is no pleasure in

anything unless some one shares it. At least"--she looked at

Armine--"that is what every woman thinks."

"Then how unhappy lots of women must be," he said.

"The lonely women. Ah! no man will ever know how unhappy."

There was a moment of silence. Something in the sound of Mrs.

Chepstow's voice as she said the last words almost compelled a silence.

For the first time since he had been with her that night Meyer Isaacson

felt that perhaps he had caught a glimpse of her true self, had drawn

near to the essential woman.

The waiter brought their coffee, and Mrs. Chepstow added, with a little

laugh:

"Even a meal eaten alone is no pleasure to a woman. To-night, till you

came to take pity upon me, I should have been far happier with

'something on a tray' in my own room. But now I feel quite convivial.

Isn't the coffee here good?"

Suddenly she looked cheerful, almost gay. Happiness seemed to blossom

within her.

"Never mind if you lie awake for once, Doctor Isaacson," she continued,

looking across at him. "You will have done a good action; you will have

cheered up a human being who had been feeling down on her luck. That

talk I had with a doctor had depressed me most horribly, although I told

myself that I didn't believe a word he said."

Meyer Isaacson sipped his coffee and said nothing.

"I think one of the wickedest things one can do in the world is to try

to take any comforting and genuine belief away from the believer," said

Armine, with energy.

"Would you leave people even in their errors?" said the Doctor.

"Suppose, for instance, you saw some one--some friend--believing in a

person whom you knew to be unworthy, would you make no effort to

enlighten him?"

He spoke very quietly--almost carelessly. Mrs. Chepstow fixed her big

blue eyes on him and for a moment forgot her coffee.

"Perhaps I should. But you know my theory."

"Oh--to be sure!"

Meyer Isaacson smiled. Mrs. Chepstow looked from one man to the other

quickly.

"What theory? Don't make me feel an outsider," she said.

"Mr. Armine thinks--may I, Armine?"

"Of course."

"Thinks that belief in the goodness, the genuineness of people helps

them to become good, genuine, so that the unworthy might be made

eventually worthy by a trust at first misplaced."

"Mr. Armine is--" She checked herself. "It is a pity the world isn't

full of Mr. Armines," she said, softly.

Armine flushed, almost boyishly.

"I wish my doctor knew you, Mr. Armine. If you create by believing, I'm

sure he destroys by disbelieving."

As she said the last words, her eyes met Meyer Isaacson's, and he saw in

them, or thought he saw, a defiance that was threatening.

The lights winked. Mrs. Chepstow got up.

"They're going to turn us out. Let us anticipate them--by going. It's so

dreadful to be turned out. It makes me feel like Eve at the critical

moment of her career."

She led the way from the big room. As she passed among the tables, every

man, and almost every woman, turned to stare at her as children stare at

a show. She seemed quite unconscious of the attention she attracted. But

when she bade good night to the two friends in the hall, she said:

"Aren't people horrible sometimes? They seem to think one is--" She

checked herself. "I'm a fool!" she said. "Good night. Thank you both for

coming. It has done me good."

"Don't mind those brutes!" Armine almost whispered to her, as he held

her hand for a moment. "Don't think of them. Think of--the others."

She looked at him in silence, nodded, and went quietly away.

Directly she had gone Meyer Isaacson said to his friend:

"Well, good night, Armine. I am glad you're back. Let us see something

of each other."

"Don't go yet. Come to my sitting-room and have a smoke."

"Better not. I have to be up early. I ride at half-past seven."

"I'll ride with you, then."

"To-morrow?"

"Yes, to-morrow."

"But have you got any horses up?"

"No; I'll hire from Simonds. Don't wait for me, but look out for me in

the Row. Good night, old chap."

As they grasped hands for a moment, he added:

"Wasn't I right?"

"Right?"

"About her--Mrs. Chepstow? She may have been driven into the Devil's

hands, but don't you see, don't you feel, the good in her, struggling

up, longing for an opportunity to proclaim itself, to take the reins of

her life and guide her to calm, to happiness, to peace? I pity that

woman, Isaacson; I pity her."

"Pity her if you like," the Doctor said, with a strong emphasis, on the

first word, "but--"

He hesitated. Something in his friend's face stopped him from saying

more, told him that perhaps it would be much wiser to say nothing more.

Opposition drives some natures blindly forward. Such natures should not

be opposed.

"I pity Mrs. Chepstow, too," he concluded. "Poor woman!"

And in saying that he spoke the truth. But his pity for her was not of

the kind that is akin to love.

The black coffee Mrs. Chepstow had persuaded Meyer Isaacson to take kept

him awake that night. Like some evil potion, it banished sleep and

peopled the night with a rushing crowd of thoughts. Presently he did not

even try to sleep. He gave himself to the crowd with a sort of

half-angry joy.

In the afternoon he had been secretly puzzled by Mrs. Chepstow. He had

wondered what under-reason she had for seeking an interview with him.

Now he surely knew that reason. Unless he was wrong, unless he

misunderstood her completely, she had come to make a curiously

audacious _coup_. She had seen Nigel Armine, she had read his strange

nature rightly; she had divined that in him there was a man who, unlike

most men, instinctively loved to go against the stream, who

instinctively turned towards that which most men turned from. She had

seen in him the born espouser of lost causes.

She was a lost cause. Armine was her opportunity.

Armine had talked to her four days ago of Meyer Isaacson. The Doctor

guessed how, knowing the generous enthusiasm of his friend. And she, a

clever woman, made distrustful by misfortune, had come to Cleveland

Square, led by feminine instinct, to spy out this land of which she had

heard so much. The Doctor's sensation of being examined, while he sat

with Mrs. Chepstow in his consulting-room, had been well-founded. The

patient had been reading the Doctor, swiftly, accurately. And she had

acted promptly upon the knowledge of him so rapidly acquired. She had

"given herself away" to him; she had shown herself to him as she was.

Why? To shut his mouth in the future. The revelation, such as it was,

had been made to him as a physician, under the guise of described

symptoms. She had told him the exact truth of herself in his

consulting-room, in order that he might not tell others--tell Nigel

Armine--what that truth was.

Her complete reliance upon her own capacity for reading character

surprised and almost delighted the Doctor. For there was something

within him which loved strength and audacity, which could appreciate

them artistically at their full value. She had given a further and a

fuller illustration of her audacity that evening in the restaurant.

Now, in the night, he could see her white face, the look in her

brilliant eyes above the painted shadows, as she told to Nigel the

series of lies about the interview in Cleveland Square, putting herself

in the Doctor's place, him in her own. She had enjoyed doing that,

enjoyed it intellectually. And she had forced the Doctor to dance to her

piping. He had been obliged to join her in her deceit--almost to back

her up in it.

He knew now why she had been alone at her table, why she had advertised

her ill success in the life she had chosen, her present abandonment by

men. This had been done to strike at Armine's peculiar temperament. It

was a very clever stroke.

But it was a burning of her boats.

Meyer Isaacson frowned in the night.

A woman like Mrs. Chepstow does not burn her boats for nothing. How much

did she expect to gain by that sacrifice of improper pride, a pride

almost dearer than life to a woman of her type? The _quid pro quo_--what

was it to be?

He feared for Nigel, as he lay awake while the night drew on towards

dawn.