as if indeed her mind were in a
state of ferment. Yet there was in her aspect also a sort of
half-submerged sluggishness. Despite her vindictive agitation, her
purposeful venom, she seemed already partially bound by a cloud of
sleep. That she had cast away her power to charm as useless was the
greatest tribute that Isaacson had ever had paid to his seeing eyes.

"Really! What has that to do with me? Do you suppose I am attending this
case surreptitiously?" said Hartley.

He forced a laugh.

"No; but I think it very possible that you may regret ever having had
anything to do with it."

In spite of himself, the young doctor was impressed by this new manner
of the older man. For a moment he was partially emancipated from Mrs.
Armine. For a moment he was rather the rising, not yet risen, medical
man than the fully risen young man in love with a fascinating woman.
When he chose, Isaacson could hold almost anybody. That was part of the
secret of his success as a doctor. He could make himself "believed in."

"Some mistakes ring through the world," Isaacson added quietly. "I
should not care to be the doctor who made one of them."

Mrs. Armine, with a sharp movement, twisted the chair quite round,
pulled at one side of her dress, and sat down.

"But surely--" Doctor Hartley began.

"This really is the most endless consultation over a case that ever
was!" said Mrs. Armine.

She leaned her arms on the arms of the chair and let her hands hang
down.

"Do, Doctor Hartley, make my husband over to Doctor Isaacson, if you
have lost confidence in yourself. It will be much better. And then,
perhaps, we shall have a little peace."

Doctor Hartley turned towards her as if pulled by a cord.

"Oh, but indeed I have not lost confidence. There is, as I have
repeatedly said, nothing complicated--"

"You are really sure?" said Isaacson.

He fixed his dark eyes on the young man. Doctor Hartley's uneasiness was
becoming evident.

"Certainly I am sure--for the present." The last words seemed to present
themselves to him as a sort of life-buoy. He grasped them, clung to
them. "For the present--yes. No doctor, of course, not the cleverest,
can possibly say that no complications ever will arise in regard to a
case. But for the present I am satisfied all is going quite as it should
go."

But he turned up the tail of his last sentence. By his intonation it
became a question, and showed clearly the state of his mind.

Isaacson had o