almost implied that she knew. Nigel had meant to tell her of it, had
doubtless told her of it on the day when he wrote it. If Isaacson went
to the Nile, there was one person on the river who would not welcome
him. He knew that well. And Nigel, of course, did not really want him.
Happy people do not really want friends outside to come into the magic
circle and share their happiness. They may say they do, out of
good-will. Even for a moment, moved by an enthusiastic impulse, they may
think that they do. But true happiness is exquisitely exclusive in its
desires.

"Armine would like me just to see it's all right, and then, when I've
seen, he would like to kick me out."

That was how Isaacson summed up eventually Nigel's exact feeling towards
him at this moment. It was hardly worth while undertaking the journey
from England to gratify such a desire of the happy egoist. Better put
the idea away. It was impracticable, and--

"Besides, it's quite out of the question!"

The Doctor returned to his table, and began resolutely to write answers
to his letters, and to fix appointments. He went on writing until every
letter was answered--every letter but Nigel Armine's.

And then again the strong desire came upon him to answer it in person,
one morning to appear on the riverbank where the--what was the
name?--the _Loulia_ was tied up, to walk on deck, and say, "I
congratulate you on your happiness."

How amazed his friend would be! And his enemy--what would her face be
like?

Isaacson always thought of Mrs. Armine as his enemy. She had come into
his life as a spy. He felt as if from the first moment when she had seen
him she had hated him. She had got the better of him, and she knew it.
Possibly now, because of that knowledge, she would like him better. She
had won out. Or had she, now that Lord Harwich had an heir?

As he sat there with Nigel's letter before him, a keen, an almost
intense curiosity was alive in Meyer Isaacson. It was not vulgar, but
the natural curiosity of the psychologist about strange human things.
Since the Armines had left London and he had known of their marriage,
Isaacson had thought of them often, but a little vaguely, as of people
who had quite gone out of his life for a time. He had to concentrate on
his own affairs. But now, with this letter, despite the great distance
between the Armines and himself, they seemed to be quite near him. All
his recollection of his connection with them started up in