"You are afraid for the Fayyūm?" 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