Something like that would be the verdict.

Were they friends? Could they ever be friends?

Nigel had met Mrs. Chepstow by chance in the vestibule of the Savoy. He
had been with a racing man whom he scarcely knew, but who happened to
know her well. This man had introduced them to each other carelessly,
and hurried away to "square things up with his bookie." Thus casually
and crudely their acquaintance was begun. How was it to continue?
Or--was it to continue?

Nigel was a strong man in the flower of his life. He was not a saint.
And he was beginning to wonder. And Isaacson, who was again in town, was
beginning to wonder, too.

During the season the Doctor was very busy. Many Americans and
foreigners desired to consult him. He adhered to his rule, and never
admitted a patient to his house after half-past five had struck, yet his
work was seldom over before the hour of seven. He could not see Nigel
often, because he could not see any one often; but he had seen him more
than once, more than once he had heard gossip about him, and he
realized, partly through knowledge, and partly through instinct, his
situation with Mrs. Chepstow. Nigel longed to be frank with Isaacson,
yet told him very little, held back by some strange reserve, subtly
inculcated, perhaps, by the woman. Other men told Isaacson far too much,
drawing evil inferences with the happy laughter of the beast and not of
the angel.

And the Doctor drew his own conclusion.