“You had a long talk with Mrs. Derringham in the drawing-room.”

“Yes,” replied Armine, rather curtly.

He relapsed into silence, leaning back in his corner.

“I like her,” the Doctor continued, after a pause.

“Do you?”

“And you—­don’t.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I feel it; I gather it from the way you said ‘yes.’”

Armine moved, and leaned slightly forwards.

“Isn’t she rather mauvaise langue?” he asked.

“Mrs. Derringham?  I certainly don’t think her so.”

“She’s one of the disbelievers in women you spoke of after dinner; one of the traitresses in the woman’s camp.  Why can’t women hang together?”

“They do sometimes.”

“Yes, when there’s a woman to be hounded down.  They hang together when there’s a work of destruction on hand.  But do they hang together when there’s a work of construction to be done?”

“Do you mean a reputation to be built up?”

Armine pulled his moustache.  In the electric light Meyer Isaacson could see that his blue eyes were shining.

“Because,” Meyer Isaacson continued, “if you do mean that, I should be inclined to say that each of us must build up his or her reputation individually for himself or herself.”

“We need help in nearly all our buildings-up, and how often, how damnably often, we don’t get it!”

“Was Mrs. Derringham specially down upon some particular woman to-night?”

“Yes, she was.”

“Do you care to tell me upon whom?”

“It was Mrs. Chepstow.”

“You were talking about Mrs. Chepstow?” Isaacson said slowly.  “The famous Mrs. Chepstow?”

“Famous!” said Armine.  “I hardly see that Mrs. Chepstow is a famous woman.  She is not a writer, a singer, a painter, an actress.  She does nothing that I ever heard of.  I shouldn’t call such a woman famous.  I daresay her name is known to lots of people.  But this is the age of chatterboxes, and of course—­”

At this moment the brougham rolled on to the rubber pavement in front of the Savoy Hotel and stopped before the entrance.

As he was getting out and going into the hall, Meyer Isaacson remembered that the letter Mrs. Chepstow had written to him asking for an appointment had been stamped “Savoy Hotel.”  She had been staying at the hotel then.  Was she staying there now?  He had never heard Armine mention her before, but his feminine intuition suddenly connected Armine’s words, “I’m very happy at the Savoy,” with the invitation to sup there, and the conversation about Mrs. Chepstow just reported to him by his friend.  Armine knew Mrs. Chepstow.  They were going to meet her in the restaurant to-night.  Meyer Isaacson felt sure of it.

They left their coats in the cloak-room and made their way to the restaurant, which as yet was almost empty.  The maitre d’hotel came forward to Armine, bowing and smiling, and showed them to a table in a corner.  Meyer Isaacson saw that it was laid for only two.  He was surprised, but he said nothing, and they sat down.