She had been very frank with him.

Why had she been so frank?

More than once he asked himself that.  His mind was full of questions to-day, questions to which he could not immediately supply answers.  He felt as if in all she had said Mrs. Chepstow had been prompted by some very definite purpose.  She had made upon him the impression of a woman full of purpose, and often full of subtlety.  He could not rid himself of the conviction that she had had some concealed reason for wishing to make his acquaintance, some reason unconnected with her health.  He believed she had wished honestly for his help as a doctor.  But surely that was not her only object in coming to Cleveland Square.

The clock on his chimney-piece struck.  His time for repose was at an end.  He shut his mouth with a snap, contracted his muscles sharply, and sprang up from his chair.  Ten minutes later he was in a cold bath, and half an hour later he was dressed for dinner, and going downstairs with the light, quick step of a man in excellent physical condition and capital spirits.  The passing depression he had caught from his last patient had vanished away, and he was in the mood to enjoy his well-earned recreation.

He was dining in Charles Street, Berkeley Square, with Lady Somerson, a widow who was persistently hospitable because she could not bear to be alone.  To-night she had a large party.  When Doctor Isaacson came into the room on the ground floor where Lady Somerson always received her guests before a dinner, he found her dressed in rusty black, with her grey hair done anyhow, managing and directing the conversation of quite a crowd of important and interesting persons, most of whom had got well away from their first youth, but were so important and interesting that they did not care at all what age they were.  It was Wednesday night, and the flavour of the party was political; but among the men were two soldiers, and among the women was a well-known beauty, who cared very little for politics, but a great deal for good talk.  She was one of those beauties who reign only in faithful London, partly because of London’s faithfulness, but partly also because of their excellent digestions, good spirits, and entire lack of pretence.  Her name was Mrs. Derringham; her age was forty-eight.  She was not “made up.”  She made no attempt to look any younger than she was.  Lively, energetic, without wrinkles, and apparently without vanity, she neither forbade nor encouraged people to think of her years, but attracted them by her splendid figure, her animation, her zest and her readiness to enjoy the passing hour.

Doctor Isaacson knew her well, and as he shook hands with her he thought of Mrs. Chepstow and of the gospel of Materialism.  This woman certainly knew how to enjoy the good things of this world; but she had interests that were not selfish:  her husband, her children, her charities, her dependents.  She had struck roots deep down into the rich and rewarding soil of the humanities.  Women like Mrs. Chepstow struck no roots into any soil.  Was it any wonder if the days came and the nights when the souls of them were weary?  Was it any wonder if the weariness set its mark upon their beauty?