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"It was certainly not." "He never had such a night before never, till you interfered with him, and interrupted Doctor Hartley's treatment." "Disgraceful!" exclaimed the young doctor. "I never have heard of such conduct. If it were ever to be made public, your medical reputation would be ruined." "And I shouldn't mind if it was, over that!" said Isaacson.
In the dog-days!" "She doesn't seem to have anywhere special to go to." "Oh!" Isaacson opened a book, and laid his hand upon a page. It happened to be a book on poisons and their treatment. He smoothed the page down mechanically and kept his hand there. "I say, Isaacson, you couldn't have the blood-lust?" "I hope not. I think not."
"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.
Hartley put that idea into her head. But since you came, of course she's realized there was more in it than that." "I dare say." Nigel waited, as if expecting something more. But Isaacson kept silence. Dinner was over. Nigel got up, and walking steadily, though not yet with the brisk lightness of complete strength and buoyancy, led the way to the drawing-room. "Shall we sit out on the terrace?"
"What a tragedy it must be to be so distrustful of love as you are!" he said, almost with violence. "You haven't lived my life." She, too, spoke almost with violence, and there was violence in her eyes. "You haven't lived for years in the midst of condemnation. Your friend, Doctor Isaacson, secretly condemns me. I know it. And so I'm afraid of him.
As Isaacson came into it, instinctively he looked towards the shut door behind which somewhere Nigel was lying, asleep or not asleep. "He'll sleep for some hours yet," said Doctor Hartley, seeing the glance. "Let's sit down here." He sat down quickly on the nearest divan, and pulled his fingers restlessly.
Zoe Harwich was very outspoken. It was improbable that Nigel's trip on the Nile would be brought to an end by his brother's death. Still, it was not impossible. Isaacson realized that, and on the following day, meeting a London acquaintance in the hotel, a man who knew everything about everybody, he spoke of the death casually, and wondered whether Armine would be leaving the Nile for England.
They came out of the first court, through the narrow and lofty portal upon which traces of the exquisite blue-green, the "love colour," still linger. This colour makes an effect that is akin to the effect that would be made by a thin but intense cry of joy rising up in a sombre temple. Isaacson looked up at it.
"I expect you know." Isaacson did not tell of that sheet of glass through which Mrs. Armine and he saw each other too plainly. "She's a woman with any amount of heart, any amount. I've proved that." He paused, looked sentimental, and continued, "Proved it up to the hilt. But she's a little bit capricious. She wants to be taken the right way. I can do anything with her."
Isaacson knew nothing of this, and sometimes he had wondered why no woman captured this nature so full of impulse and of sympathy, so full of just those qualities which make good women happy. If Mrs. Chepstow should capture it, the irony of life would be in flood. Would she win the love as well as the pity and the chivalry of Nigel, which she already had?
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