ion fitted best the cruder, more sordid method of gaining
possession of this woman. And men seem made for falling.

The nargeeleh was finished, but still Isaacson sat there. Whatever
happened, he would never protest to Nigel. The _feu sacre_ in the man
would burn up protest. Isaacson knew that--in a way loved to know it.
Yet what tears lay behind--the tears for what is inevitable, and what
can only be sad! And he seemed to hear again the symphony which he had
heard that night with Nigel, the unyielding pulse of life, beautiful,
terrible, in its monotony; to hear its persistent throbbing, like the
beating of a sad heart--which cannot cease to beat.

Upon the window suddenly there came a gust of wild autumn rain. He got
up and went to bed.

X

Very seldom did Meyer Isaacson allow his heart to fight against the
dictates of his brain; more seldom still did he, presiding over the
battle, like some heathen god of mythology, give his conscious help to
the heart. But all men at times betray themselves, and some betrayals,
if scarcely clever, are not without nobility. Such a betrayal led him
upon the following day to send a note to Mrs. Chepstow, asking for an
appointment. "May I see you alone?" he wrote.

In the evening came an answer:

"Dear Doctor:

"I thought you had quite forgotten me. I have a pleasant
recollection of your visit in the summer. Indeed, it made me
understand for the first time that even a Bank Holiday need not be
a day of wrath and mourning. Do repeat your visit. And as I know
you are always so busy telling people how perfectly healthy they
are, come next Sunday to tea at five. I shall keep out the
clamouring crowd, so that we may discuss any high matter that
occurs to us."

Yours sincerely,

"Ruby Chepstow."

It was Wednesday when Isaacson read, and re-read, this note. He
regretted the days that must intervene before the Sunday came. For he
feared to repent his betrayal. And the note did not banish this fear.
More than once he did repent. Then he and Nigel met and again he gave
conscious help to his heart. He did not speak to Nigel of the projected
visit, and Nigel did not say anything more about Mrs. Chepstow. Isaacson
wondered at this reserve, which seemed to him unnatural in Nigel. More
than once he found himself thinking that Nigel regretted what he had
said about the possibility of Mrs. Chepstow visiting Egypt. But of this
he