He spoke very quietly--almost carelessly. Mrs. Chepstow fixed her big blue eyes on him and for a moment forgot her coffee.
"Perhaps I should. But you know my theory."
"Oh--to be sure!"
Meyer Isaacson smiled. Mrs. Chepstow looked from one man to the other quickly.
"What theory? Don't make me feel an outsider," she said.
"Mr. Armine thinks--may I, Armine?"
"Of course."
"Thinks that belief in the goodness, the genuineness of people helps them to become good, genuine, so that the unworthy might be made eventually worthy by a trust at first misplaced."
"Mr. Armine is--" She checked herself. "It is a pity the world isn't full of Mr. Armines," she said, softly.
Armine flushed, almost boyishly.
"I wish my doctor knew you, Mr. Armine. If you create by believing, I'm sure he destroys by disbelieving."
As she said the last words, her eyes met Meyer Isaacson's, and he saw in them, or thought he saw, a defiance that was threatening.
The lights winked. Mrs. Chepstow got up.
"They're going to turn us out. Let us anticipate them--by going. It's so dreadful to be turned out. It makes me feel like Eve at the critical moment of her career."
She led the way from the big room. As she passed among the tables, every man, and almost every woman, turned to stare at her as children stare at a show. She seemed quite unconscious of the attention she attracted. But when she bade good night to the two friends in the hall, she said: "Aren't people horrible sometimes? They seem to think one is--" She checked herself. "I'm a fool!" she said. "Good night. Thank you both for coming. It has done me good."
"Don't mind those brutes!" Armine almost whispered to her, as he held her hand for a moment. "Don't think of them. Think of--the others."
She looked at him in silence, nodded, and went quietly away.
Directly she had gone Meyer Isaacson said to his friend: "Well, good night, Armine. I am glad you're back. Let us see something of each other."
"Don't go yet. Come to my sitting-room and have a smoke."
"Better not. I have to be up early. I ride at half-past seven."
"I'll ride with you, then."
"To-morrow?"
"Yes, to-morrow."
"But have you got any horses up?"
"No; I'll hire from Simonds. Don't wait for me, but look out for me in the Row. Good night, old chap."
As they grasped hands for a moment, he added: "Wasn't I right?"
"Right?"
"About her--Mrs. Chepstow? She may have been driven into the Devil's hands, but don't you see, don't you feel, the good in her, struggling up, longing for an opportunity to proclaim itself, to take the reins of her life and guide her to calm, to happiness, to peace? I pity that woman, Isaacson; I pity her."