"I am not talking as a doctor."
"Then as a friend--or as an enemy?"
"As a friend--of his."
"Of whom?"
"Of Nigel Armine."
"Because he is working in the Fayyum, may not I go up the Nile?"
"If you were on the Nile, Armine would not be in the Fayyum."
"You are anxious about his reclaiming of the desert? Have you put money
into his land scheme?"
"You think I only care for money?" he said, nettled, despite himself, at
the sound of knowledge in her voice.
"What do you know of me?"
"And you--of me?"
She still spoke lightly, smilingly. But he thought of the inexorable
beating of that pulse of life--of life, and the will to live as her
philosophy desired.
"I don't wish to speak of any knowledge I may have of you. But--leave
Armine in the Fayyum."
"Did he say I was going to Egypt?"
"He spoke of it once only. Then he said you might go."
"Anything else?"
"He said that if you did go he would look after you."
She sat looking at him in silence.
"And--why not?" she said at last, as he said nothing more.
"Others have--looked after you."
Her face did not change.
"Doesn't he know it?" she said.
"And he isn't like--others."
"I know what he is like."
When she said that, Isaacson hated her, hated her for her woman's power
of understanding, and, through her understanding, of governing men.
"What does he mean by--looking after you?" he said.
And now, almost without knowing it, he spoke sternly, and his dark face
was full of condemnation.
"What did you mean when you said that 'others' have done it?"
"Then it is that!"
Isaacson had not meant to speak the words, but they escaped from his
lips. No passing light in her eyes betrayed that she had caught the
reflection of the thought that lay behind them.
"Men! Men!" his mind was saying. "And--even Armine!"
"You are afraid for the Fayyum?" she said.
"Oh, Mrs. Chepstow!" he began, with a sudden vehemence that suggested
the unchaining of a nature. Then he stopped. Behind his silence there
was a flood of words--words to describe her temperament and Armine's,
her mode of life and Armine's, what she deserved--and he; words that
would have painted for Mrs. Chepstow not only the good in Isaacson's
friend, but also the secret good in Isaacson, shown in his love of it,
his desire to keep it out of the mud. And it was just this secret good
that prevented Isaacson from speaking. He could not bear to show it to
this woman. Instinctively she knew, appreciated, what was, perhaps, not
high-minded in him. Let her be content with that knowledge. He would not
make her the gift of his goodness.
And--to do so would be useless.
"Yes?" she said.
She sat up on the sofa. She was looking lightly curious.
"If you do go to the Nile, let me wish you a happy winter."
He was once more the self-possessed Doctor so many women liked.
"If I go, I shall know how to make him happy," she replied, echoing his
cool manner, despite her more earnest words.
He got up. Again he hated her for her knowledge of men. He hated her so
much that he longed to be away from her. Why should she be allowed to
take a life like Armine's into her soiled hands, even if she could make
him happy for a time, being a mistress of deception?
"Good-bye."
He just touched her hand.
"Good-bye. I am grateful. You know why."
Again she sent him that cordial smile. He left her standing up by the
hearth. The glow from the flames played over her rose-coloured gown. Her
beautiful head was turned towards the door to watch him go. In one hand
she held her cigarette. Its tiny wreath of smoke curled lightly about
her, mounting up in the warm, bright room. Her figure, the shape of her
head, her eyes--they looked really lovely. She was still the "Bella
Donna" men had talked about so long. But as he went out, he saw the tiny
wrinkles near her eyes, the slight hardness about her cheekbones, the
cynical droop at the corners of her mouth.
Armine did not see them. He could not make Armine see them. Armine saw
only the beauties she possessed. His concentration on them made for
blindness.
And yet even he had his ugliness. For now Isaacson believed in the
liaison between him and Mrs. Chepstow.
Only eight days later, after Mrs. Chepstow and Nigel had sailed for
Alexandria, did he learn that they were married.