t do you say to our joining Mrs. Chepstow? It must be awfully dull
for her, supping all alone. We might go and speak to her. If she doesn't
ask us to sit down, we can go into the hall and have a cigar."

"Very well."

There was neither alacrity nor reluctance in Meyer Isaacson's voice, but
if there had been, Armine would probably not have noticed it. When he
was intent on a thing, he saw little but that one thing. Now he paid the
bill, tipped the waiter, and got up.

"Come along," he said, "and I will introduce you."

He put his hand for an instant on his friend's arm.

"Clear your mind of prejudice, Isaacson," he said, in a low voice. "You
are too good and too clever to be one of the prejudiced crowd. Let your
first impression be a true one."

As the doctor went with his friend to Mrs. Chepstow's table, he did not
tell him that first impression had been already formed in the
consulting-room of the house in Cleveland Square.

V

"Mrs. Chepstow!"

At the sound of Nigel Armine's voice Mrs. Chepstow started slightly,
like a person recalled abruptly from a reverie, looked up, and smiled.

"You are here! I'm all alone. But I was hungry, so I had to brave the
rabble."

"I want to introduce a friend to you. May I?"

"Of course."

Armine moved, and Doctor Isaacson stood by Mrs. Chepstow.

"Doctor Meyer Isaacson, Mrs. Chepstow."

The Doctor scarcely knew whether he had expected Mrs. Chepstow to
recognize him, or whether he had anticipated what actually happened--her
slight bow and murmured "I'm delighted to meet you." But he did know
that he was not really surprised at her treatment of him as an entire
stranger. And he was glad that he had said nothing to Armine of her
visit to Cleveland Square.

"Aren't you going to sit down and talk to me for a little?" Mrs.
Chepstow said. "I'm all alone and horribly dull."

"May we?"

Armine drew up a chair.

"Sit on my other side, Doctor Isaacson. I've heard a great deal about
you. You've made perfect cures of most of my enemies."

There was not the least trace of consciousness in her manner, not the
faintest suspicion of embarrassment in her look, and, as he sat down,
the Doctor found himself admiring the delicate perfection of her deceit,
as he had sometimes admired a subtle _nuance_ in the performance of some
great French actress.

"You ought to hate me then," he said.

"Why? If I don't hate them?"

"Don't you hate your enemies?" asked Armine.

"No