"I shall look after her."
The expression fitted best the cruder, more sordid method of gaining possession of this woman. And men seem made for falling.
The nargeeleh was finished, but still Isaacson sat there. Whatever happened, he would never protest to Nigel. The feu sacré in the man would burn up protest. Isaacson knew that--in a way loved to know it. Yet what tears lay behind--the tears for what is inevitable, and what can only be sad! And he seemed to hear again the symphony which he had heard that night with Nigel, the unyielding pulse of life, beautiful, terrible, in its monotony; to hear its persistent throbbing, like the beating of a sad heart--which cannot cease to beat.
Upon the window suddenly there came a gust of wild autumn rain. He got up and went to bed.