to her balcony and looked down to the Embankment, idly
watching the traffic, the people walking by.

Although she did not know it, Nigel was among them. He was strolling by
the river. He was looking at the sunset. And he was thinking of the poet
Browning, and of the woman whom love took from the shrouded chamber and
set on the mountain peaks.

VII

Although Nigel Armine was an enthusiast, and what many people called an
"original," he was also a man of the world. He knew the trend of the
world's opinion, he realized clearly how the world regarded any actions
that were not worldly. The fact that often he did not care did not mean
that he did not know. He was no ignorant citizen, and in his
acquaintance with Mrs. Chepstow his worldly knowledge did not forsake
him. Clearly he understood how the average London man--the man he met at
his clubs, at Ranelagh, at Hurlingham--would sum up any friendship
between Mrs. Chepstow and himself.

"Mrs. Chepstow's hooked poor old Armine!"

Something like that would be the verdict.

Were they friends? Could they ever be friends?

Nigel had met Mrs. Chepstow by chance in the vestibule of the Savoy. He
had been with a racing man whom he scarcely knew, but who happened to
know her well. This man had introduced them to each other carelessly,
and hurried away to "square things up with his bookie." Thus casually
and crudely their acquaintance was begun. How was it to continue?
Or--was it to continue?

Nigel was a strong man in the flower of his life. He was not a saint.
And he was beginning to wonder. And Isaacson, who was again in town, was
beginning to wonder, too.

During the season the Doctor was very busy. Many Americans and
foreigners desired to consult him. He adhered to his rule, and never
admitted a patient to his house after half-past five had struck, yet his
work was seldom over before the hour of seven. He could not see Nigel
often, because he could not see any one often; but he had seen him more
than once, more than once he had heard gossip about him, and he
realized, partly through knowledge, and partly through instinct, his
situation with Mrs. Chepstow. Nigel longed to be frank with Isaacson,
yet told him very little, held back by some strange reserve, subtly
inculcated, perhaps, by the woman. Other men told Isaacson far too much,
drawing evil inferences with the happy laughter of the beast and not of
the angel.

And the Doctor drew his own conclusion.

From