disease. His gift for diagnosis was so remarkable that he was morally
forced to exercise it. And he had a greedy passion for studying
humanity. And who has such opportunities for the study of humanity as
the doctor and the priest? Patients who had been to him spoke
enthusiastically of his observant eyes. His personality always made a
great impression. "There's no one just like him," was a frequent comment
upon Doctor Meyer Isaacson. And that phrase is a high compliment upon
the lips of London, the city of parrots and of monkeys.

His age was debated, and so was his origin. Most people thought he was
"about forty"; a very safe age, young enough to allow of almost
unlimited expectation, old enough to make results achieved not quite
unnatural, though possibly startling. Yes, he must be "about forty." And
his origin? "Meyer" suggested Germany. As to "Isaacson," it allowed the
ardent imagination free play over denationalized Israel. Someone said
that he "looked as if he came from the East," to which a cynic made
answer, "The East End." There was, perhaps, a hint of both in the Doctor
of Cleveland Square. Certain it is that in the course of a walk down
Brick Lane, or the adjacent thoroughfares, one will encounter men of his
type; men of middle height, of slight build, with thick, close-growing
hair strongly curling, boldly curving lips, large nostrils, prominent
cheek-bones, dark eyes almost fiercely shining; men who are startlingly
un-English. Doctor Meyer Isaacson was like these men. Yet he possessed
something which set him apart from them. He looked intensely
vital--almost unnaturally vital--when he was surrounded by English
people, but he did not look fierce and hungry. One could conceive of him
doing something bizarre, but one could not conceive of him doing
anything low. There was sometimes a light in his eyes which suggested a
moral distinction rarely to be found in those who dwell in and about
Brick Lane. His slight, nervous hands, dark in colour, recalled the