After his examination of Mrs. Chepstow, his series of questions, he had said to her, “There is nothing the matter with you.”  A very ordinary phrase, but even as he spoke it, something within him cried to him, “You liar!” This woman suffered from no bodily disease.  But to say to her, “There is nothing the matter with you,” was, nevertheless, to tell her a lie.  And he had added the qualifying statement, “that a doctor can do anything for.”  He could see her face before him now as it had looked for a moment after he had spoken.

Her exquisite hair was dyed a curious colour.  Naturally a bright brown, it had been changed by art to a lighter, less warm hue, that was neither flaxen nor golden, but that held a strange pallor, distinctive, though scarcely beautiful.  It had the merit of making her eyes look very vivid between the painted shadows and the painted brows, and this fact had been no doubt realized by the artist responsible for it.  Apparently Mrs. Chepstow relied upon the fascination of a peculiar, almost anaemic fairness, in the midst of which eyes, lips, and brows stood forcibly out to seize the attention and engross it.  There was in this fairness, this blanched delicacy, something almost pathetic, which assisted the completion, in the mind of a not too astute beholder, of the impression already begun to be made by the beautiful shape of the face.

When Doctor Meyer Isaacson had finished speaking, that face had been a still but searching question; and almost immediately a question had come from the red lips.

“Is there absolutely no unhealthy condition of body such as might be expected to produce low spirits?  You see how medically I speak!”

“None whatever.  You are not even gouty, and three-quarters, at least, of my patients are gouty in some form or other.”

Mrs. Chepstow frowned.

“Then what would you advise me to do?” she asked.  “Shall I go to a priest?  Shall I go to a philosopher?  Shall I go to a Christian Science temple?  Or do you think a good dose of the ‘New Theology’ would benefit me?”

She spoke satirically, yet Doctor Isaacson felt as if he heard, far off, faintly behind the satire, the despair of the materialist, against whom, in certain moments, all avenues of hope seem inexorably closed.  He looked at Mrs. Chepstow, and there was a dawning of pity in his eyes as he answered: 

“How can I advise you?”

“How indeed?  And yet—­and that’s a curious thing—­you look as if you could.”

“If you are really a convinced materialist, an honest atheist—­”

“I am.”

“Well, then it would be useless to advise you to seek priests or to go to Christian Science temples.  I can only tell you that your complaint is not a complaint of the body.”

“Then is it a complaint of the soul?  That’s a bore, because I don’t happen to believe in the soul, and I do believe very much in the body.”

“I wonder what exactly you mean when you say you don’t believe in the soul.”