The servant went out and shut the door.

"How quite amazing!"

"But--why, Mrs. Chepstow?"

He had taken and dropped her hand. As he touched her, he remembered
holding her wrist in his consulting room. The sensation she had
communicated to him then she communicated again, this time perhaps more
strongly.

"Why? It is Bank Holiday! And you never come to see me. By the way, how
clever of you to divine that I should be in on such a day of universal
going out."

"Even men have their intuitions."

"Don't I know it, to my cost? But to-day I can only bless man's
intuition. Where will you sit?"

"Anywhere."

"Here, then."

He sat down on the sofa, and she in a chair, facing the light. She was
without a hat. Isaacson wondered what she had been doing all the day,
and why she was in London. That she had her definite reason he knew, as
a woman knows when another woman is wearing a last year's gown. As their
eyes met, he felt strongly the repulsion he concealed. Yet he realized
that Mrs. Chepstow was looking less faded, younger, more beautiful than