She sat looking at him in silence.
"And--why not?" she said at last, as he said nothing more.
"Others have--looked after you."
Her face did not change.
"Doesn't he know it?" she said.
"And he isn't like--others."
"I know what he is like."
When she said that, Isaacson hated her, hated her for her woman's power of understanding, and, through her understanding, of governing men.
"What does he mean by--looking after you?" he said.
And now, almost without knowing it, he spoke sternly, and his dark face was full of condemnation.
"What did you mean when you said that 'others' have done it?"
"Then it is that!"
Isaacson had not meant to speak the words, but they escaped from his lips. No passing light in her eyes betrayed that she had caught the reflection of the thought that lay behind them.
"Men! Men!" his mind was saying. "And--even Armine!"
"You are afraid for the Fayyum?" she said.
"Oh, Mrs. Chepstow!" he began, with a sudden vehemence that suggested the unchaining of a nature. Then he stopped. Behind his silence there was a flood of words--words to describe her temperament and Armine's, her mode of life and Armine's, what she deserved--and he; words that would have painted for Mrs. Chepstow not only the good in Isaacson's friend, but also the secret good in Isaacson, shown in his love of it, his desire to keep it out of the mud. And it was just this secret good that prevented Isaacson from speaking. He could not bear to show it to this woman. Instinctively she knew, appreciated, what was, perhaps, not high-minded in him. Let her be content with that knowledge. He would not make her the gift of his goodness.
And--to do so would be useless.
"Yes?" she said.
She sat up on the sofa. She was looking lightly curious.
"If you do go to the Nile, let me wish you a happy winter."
He was once more the self-possessed Doctor so many women liked.
"If I go, I shall know how to make him happy," she replied, echoing his cool manner, despite her more earnest words.
He got up. Again he hated her for her knowledge of men. He hated her so much that he longed to be away from her. Why should she be allowed to take a life like Armine's into her soiled hands, even if she could make him happy for a time, being a mistress of deception?
"Good-bye."
He just touched her hand.
"Good-bye. I am grateful. You know why."
Again she sent him that cordial smile. He left her standing up by the hearth. The glow from the flames played over her rose-coloured gown. Her beautiful head was turned towards the door to watch him go. In one hand she held her cigarette. Its tiny wreath of smoke curled lightly about her, mounting up in the warm, bright room. Her figure, the shape of her head, her eyes--they looked really lovely. She was still the "Bella Donna" men had talked about so long. But as he went out, he saw the tiny wrinkles near her eyes, the slight hardness about her cheekbones, the cynical droop at the corners of her mouth.