"Cairo, I suppose?"

"I think she is sick of towns."

"Then no doubt she'll go up the Nile."

There was a barrier between them. Both men felt it acutely.

"If she goes--it is not quite certain--I shall look after her," said
Nigel.

Meyer Isaacson said nothing; and, after a silence that was awkward,
Nigel changed the conversation, and not long after went away. When he
was gone, Isaacson returned to his sitting-room upstairs and lit a
nargeeleh pipe. He had turned out all the electric burners except one,
and as he sat alone there in the small room, so dimly lighted, holding
the long, snake-like pipe-stem in his thin, artistic hands, he looked
like an Eastern Jew. With a fez upon his head, Europe would have dropped
from him. Even his expression seemed to have become wholly Eastern, in
its sombre, glittering intelligence, and in the patience of its craft.

"I shall look after her."

Said about a woman like Mrs. Chepstow by a man of Nigel's youth, and
strength, and temperament, that could only mean one of two things, a
liaison or a marriage. Which did it mean? Isaacson tried to infer from
Nigel's tone and manner. His friend had seemed embarrassed, had
certainly been embarrassed. But that might have been caused by something
in his, Isaacson's, look or manner. Though Nigel was enthusiastic and
determined, he was not insensitive to what was passing in the mind of