“Why not?  What is a doctor for?  I tell you I am certain these feelings in me come from a bodily condition.”

“You think it quite impossible that they may proceed from a condition of the soul?”

“Quite.  I believe it all ends here on the day one dies.  I feel as certain of that as of my being a woman.  And this being my conviction, I think it of paramount importance to have a good time while I am here.”

“Naturally.”

“Now, a woman’s good time depends on a woman’s power over others, and that power depends on her thorough-going belief in herself.  So long as she is perfectly well, she feels young, and so long as she feels young, she can give the impression that she is young—­with the slightest assistance from art.  And so long as she can give that impression—­of course I am speaking of a woman who is what is called ’attractive’—­it is all right with her.  She will believe in herself, and she will have a good time.  Now, Doctor Isaacson—­remember that I consider all confidences made to a physician of your eminence, all that I tell you to-day, as inviolably secret—­”

“Of course,” he said.

“Lately my belief in myself has been—­well, shaken.  I attribute this to some failure in my health.  So I have come to you.  Try to find out if anything in my bodily condition is wrong.”

“Very well.  But you must allow me to examine you, and I must put to you a number of purely medical questions which you must answer truthfully.”

"En avant, monsieur!"

She put her parasol down on the floor beside her.

“I don’t believe in subterfuge—­with a doctor,” she said.

III

Mrs. Chepstow came out of the house in Cleveland Square as the clocks were striking seven, stepped into a taximeter cab, and was hurried off into the busy whirl of St. James’s Street, while Doctor Meyer Isaacson went upstairs to his bedroom to rest and dress for dinner.  His clothes were already laid out, and he sent his valet away.  As soon as the man was gone, the Doctor took off his coat and waistcoat, his collar and tie, sat down in an arm-chair by the open window, leaned his head against a cushion, shut his eyes, and deliberately relaxed all his muscles.  Every day, sometimes at one time, sometimes at another, he did this for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour; and in these moments, as he relaxed his muscles, he also relaxed his mind, banishing thoughts by an effort of the will.  So often had he done this that generally he did it without difficulty; and though he never fell asleep in daylight, he came out of this short rest-cure refreshed as after two hours of slumber.

But to-day, though he could command his body, his mind was wilful.  He could not clear it of the restless thoughts.  Indeed, it seemed to him that he became all mind as he sat there, motionless, looking almost like a dead man, with his stretched-out legs, his hanging arms, his dropped jaw.  His last patient was fighting against his desire for complete repose, was defying his will and conquering it.