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Updated: May 5, 2025
At this moment Lady Somerson sprang up, in her usual feverish manner, and the men in a moment were left to themselves. As the sliding doors closed behind Lady Somerson's active back, there was a hesitating movement among them, suggestive of a half-formed desire for rearrangement. Then Armine came decisively away from his place on the far side of the long table, and joined Meyer Isaacson.
But he was surely a hero from the North who had very recently had his dwelling in the South, and who had taken kindly to it. When Lady Somerson saw the newcomer, she rushed at him and blew him up.
The passing depression he had caught from his last patient had vanished away, and he was in the mood to enjoy his well-earned recreation. He was dining in Charles Street, Berkeley Square, with Lady Somerson, a widow who was persistently hospitable because she could not bear to be alone. To-night she had a large party.
When Doctor Isaacson came into the room on the ground floor where Lady Somerson always received her guests before a dinner, he found her dressed in rusty black, with her grey hair done anyhow, managing and directing the conversation of quite a crowd of important and interesting persons, most of whom had got well away from their first youth, but were so important and interesting that they did not care at all what age they were.
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