followed the names of three women, then the name of a boy. He was coming
with his mother, a lady of an anxious mind. The Doctor had a sheaf of
letters from her. And so the morning's task was over. He turned a page
and came to the afternoon.

"Two o'clock, Mrs. Lesueur; two-thirty, Miss Mendish; three, the Dean of
Greystone; three-thirty, Lady Carle; four, Madame de Lys; four-thirty,
Mrs. Harringby; five, Sir Henry Grebe; five-thirty, Mrs. Chepstow."

The last name was that of the last patient. Doctor Meyer Isaacson's
day's work was over at six, or was supposed to be over. Often, however,
he gave a patient more than the fixed half-hour, and so prolonged his
labours. But no one was admitted to his house for consultation after the
patient whose name was against the time of five-thirty.

And so Mrs. Chepstow would be the last patient he would see that day.

He sat for a moment with the book open on his knee, looking at her name.

It was a name very well known to him, very well known to the
English-speaking world in general.

Mrs. Chepstow was a great beauty in decline. Her day of glory had been
fairly long, but now it seemed to be over. She was past forty. She said
she was thirty-eight, but she was over forty. Goodness, some say, keeps
women fresh. Mrs. Chepstow had tried a great many means of keeping
fresh, but she had omitted that. The step between æstheticism and
asceticism was one which she had never taken, though she had taken many
steps, some of them, unfortunately, false ones. She had been a well-born
girl, the daughter of aristocratic but impecunious and extravagant