The last sentence seemed almost to be blurted out, so honestly was it said. But instantly, as if regretting a sincere indiscretion, she added: "Doctor Isaacson, what an idiot you must think me!"
"Why, Mrs. Chepstow?"
"For saying that. You, of course, think we are the slaves of our bodies."
"I certainly do not think you an idiot," he could not help saying, with significance.
"Isaacson is not an ordinary doctor," said Armine. "You needn't be afraid of him."
"I don't think I'm afraid of anybody, but one doesn't want to make oneself absurd. And I believe I often am absurd in rating the body too low. What a conversation!" she added, smiling. "But, as I was all alone in the crowd, I was thinking of all sorts of things. A crowd makes one think tremendously, if one is quite alone. It stimulates the brain, I suppose. So I was thinking a lot of rubbish over my solitary meal."
She looked at the two men apologetically.
"La femme pense," she said, and she shrugged her shoulders.
Armine drew his chair a little nearer to her, and this action suddenly made Doctor Isaacson realize the power that still dwelt in this woman, the power to govern certain types of men.
"And the man acts," completed Armine.
"And the woman acts, too, and better than the man," the Doctor thought to himself.
Again his admiration was stirred, this time by the sledge-hammer boldness of Mrs. Chepstow, by her complete though so secret defiance of himself.
"But what were you thinking about?" Armine continued, earnestly. "I noticed how preoccupied you were even when you came into the room."
"Did you? I was thinking about a conversation I had this afternoon. Oddly enough"--she turned slowly towards Meyer Isaacson--"it was with a doctor."
"Indeed?" he said, looking her full in the face.
"Yes."
She turned away, and once more spoke to Armine.
"I went this afternoon to a doctor, Mr. Armine, to consult him about a friend of mine who is ill and obstinate, and we had a most extraordinary talk about the soul and the body. A sort of fight it was. He thought me a typical silly woman. I'm sure of that."
"Why?"
"Because I suppose I took a sentimental view of our subject. We women always instinctively take the sentimental view, you know. My doctor was severely scientific and frightfully sceptical. He thought me an absurd visionary."
"And what did you think him?"
"I'm afraid I thought him a crass materialist. He had doctored the body until he was able to believe only in the body. He referred everything back to the body. Every emotion, according to him, was only caused by the terminal of a nerve vibrating in a cell contained in the grey matter of the brain. I dare say he thinks the most passionate love could be operated for. And as to any one having an immortal soul--well, I did dare, being naturally fearless, just to mention the possibility of my possessing such a thing. But I was really sorry afterwards."