“I really can’t eat supper, Armine,” he said.  “Don’t order it for me.”

“Have a little soup, at least, and a glass of champagne?”

Without waiting for a reply, he gave an order.

“We might have sat in the hall, but it is more amusing in here.  Remember, I haven’t been in London—­seen the London show—­for over eight months.  One meets a lot of old friends and acquaintances in places like this.”

Meyer Isaacson opened his lips to say that Armine would be far more likely to meet his friends during the season if he went to parties in private houses.  America was beginning to stream in, mingled with English country people “up” for a few days, and floating representatives of the nations of the earth.  In this heterogeneous crowd he saw no one whom he knew, and Armine had not so far recognized anybody.  But he shut his lips without speaking.  He realized that Armine had a purpose in coming to the Savoy to-night, in bringing him.  For some reason his friend was trying to mask that purpose, but it must almost immediately become apparent.  He had only to wait for a few minutes, and doubtless he would know exactly what it was.

A waiter brought the soup and the champagne.

“If any of the patients to whom I have strictly forbidden supper should see me now,” said the Doctor, “and if they should divine that I have come straight from a long dinner!—­Armine, I am making a heavy sacrifice on friendship’s altar.”

“You don’t see any patients, I hope?”

“Not as yet,” the Doctor answered.

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, he saw Mrs. Chepstow at some distance from them, coming in at the door.  She came in alone.  He looked to see her escort, but, to his surprise, she was not followed by any one.  Holding herself very erect, and not glancing to the right or left, she walked down the room escorted by the maitre d’hotel, passed close to Armine and the Doctor, went to a small table set in the angle of a screen not far off, and sat down with her profile turned towards them.  She said a few words to the maitre d’hotel.  He spoke to a waiter, then hurried away.  Mrs. Chepstow sat very still in her chair, looking down.  She had laid a lace fan beside the knives and glasses that shone in the electric light.  Her right hand rested lightly on it.  She was dressed in black, and wore white gloves, and a diamond comb in her fair, dyed hair.  Her strange, colourless complexion looked extra-ordinarily delicate and pure from where the two friends were sitting.  There was something pathetic in its whiteness, and in the quiet attitude of this woman who sat quite alone in the midst of the gay crowd.  Many people stared at her, whispered about her, were obviously surprised at her solitude; but she seemed quite unconscious that she was being noticed.  And there was a curious simplicity in her unconsciousness, and in her attitude, which made her seem almost girlish from a little distance.