tive for your soul," Nigel said.

Mrs. Chepstow looked touched, and turned once more away from the light,
after Nigel had noticed that she looked touched.

"Have you seen your friend, Doctor Isaacson, to-day?" she said, seeming
to make an effort in changing the conversation. "I like that man, though
usually I dislike Jews because of their love for money. I like him, and
somehow I feel as if he had liked me the other night, as if he had felt
kindly towards me."

"Isaacson is a splendid fellow. I haven't seen him again. He has been
called away by a case. We were to have ridden together this morning, but
he sent to say it was impossible. He has gone into the country."

"Will he be away long?"

"I don't know. I hope not. I want him here badly."

"Oh?"

"I mean that he's congenial to me in many ways, and that congenial
spirits are rare."

"You must have troops of friends. You are a man's man."

"I don't know. What is a man's man?"

"A man like you."

"And a woman's man?" he asked, drawing his chair a little towards her.

"Every man's man is a woman's man."

"You say you cannot pretend. Cannot you flatter?"

"I can pretend to that extent, and sometimes do. But why should I
flatter you? I don't believe you care a bit about it. You love a kindly
truth. Who doesn't? I've just told you a kindly truth."

"I should like to tell you some kindly truths," he said.

"I'm afraid there are not many you, or any one else, could tell. I dare
say there are one or two, though, for I believe there is in every one
of us a little bit--almost infinitesimal, perhaps--of ineradicable good,
a tiny flame which no amount of drenching can ever extinguish."

"I know it."

"Oh, but it does want cherishing--cherishing--cherishing all the time,
the tiny flame of ineradicable good."

She took his cup quickly, and began to pour out some more tea for him,
like one ashamed of an outburst and striving to cover it up by action.

"Bring Doctor Isaacson to see me one day--if he'll come," she said, in a
changed, cool voice, the non-committal voice of the trained woman of the
world.

He felt that the real woman had for an instant risen to the surface, and
had sunk again into the depths of her; that she was almost ashamed of
this real, good woman. And he longed to tell her so, to say to her,
"Don't be ashamed. Let me see the real woman, the good woman. That is
the woman I seek when I am near you." But he did not dare to strike a
blow on her