As he said this, he glanced at Isaacson, and the Doctor understood that
he was seeking to display to his friend what he believed to be this
woman's character.

"Simply because I can't. I am what I am. I can't change myself, and I
can't act in defiance of the little interior voice. I often try to, for
I don't pretend in the least to be virtuous; but I have to give in. I
know it's weakness. I know the world would laugh at it. But--_que
voulez-vous?_--some of us are the slaves of our souls."

The last sentence seemed almost to be blurted out, so honestly was it
said. But instantly, as if regretting a sincere indiscretion, she added:

"Doctor Isaacson, what an idiot you must think me!"

"Why, Mrs. Chepstow?"

"For saying that. You, of course, think we are the slaves of our
bodies."

"I certainly do not think you an idiot," he could not help saying, with
significance.

"Isaacson is not an ordinary doctor," said Armine. "You needn't be
afraid of him."

"I don't think I'm afraid of anybody, but one doesn't want to make
oneself absurd. And I believe I often am absurd in rating the body too
low. What a conversation!" she added, smiling. "But, as I was all alone
in the crowd, I was thinking of all sorts of things. A crowd makes one