“She is staying in this hotel, and is sitting over there.  But of course you know her by sight,” said Armine.

“Oh, yes, I have seen her about.”

“I think you will like her, if you can clear your mind of any prejudices you may have formed against her.”

“Why should I be prejudiced against Mrs. Chepstow?”

“People are.  No one has a good word for her.  Both women and men speak ill of her.”

From the tone of Armine’s voice Meyer Isaacson knew that this fact had prejudiced him in Mrs. Chepstow’s favour.  There are some men who are born to defend lost causes, who instinctively turn towards those from whom others are ostentatiously turning away, moved by some secret chivalry which blinds their reason, or by a passion of simple human pity that dominates their hearts and casts a shadow over the brightness of their intellects.  Of these men Nigel Armine was one, and Meyer Isaacson knew it.  He was not much surprised, therefore, when Armine continued: 

“They see only the surface of things, and judge by what they see.  I suppose one ought not to condemn them.  But sometimes it’s—­it’s devilish difficult not to condemn cruelty, especially when the cruelty is directed against a woman.  Only to-night Mrs. Derringham—­and you say she’s a good sort of woman—­”

“Very much so.”

“Well, she said to me, ’For such women as Mrs. Chepstow I have no pity, so don’t ask it of me, Mr. Armine.’  What a confession, Isaacson!”

“Did she give her reasons?”

“Oh, yes, she tried to.  She said the usual thing.”

“What was that?”

“She said that Mrs. Chepstow had sold herself body and soul to the Devil for material things; that she was the typical greedy woman.”

“And did she indicate exactly what she meant by the typical greedy woman?”

“Yes.  I will say for her that she was plain-spoken.  She said:  ’The woman without ideals, without any feeling for home and all that home means, the one man, children, peace found in unselfishness, rest in work for others; the woman who betrays the reputation of her sex by being absolutely concentrated upon herself, and whose desires only extend to the vulgar satisfactions brought by a preposterous expenditure of money on clothes, jewels, yachts, houses, motors, everything that rouses wonder and admiration in utterly second-rate minds.’”

“There are such women.”

“Perhaps there are.  But, my dear Isaacson, one has only to look at Mrs. Chepstow—­with unprejudiced eyes, mind you—­to see that she could never be one of them.  Even if I had never spoken to her, I should know that she must have ideals, could never not have them, whatever her life is, or has been.  Physiognomy cannot utterly lie.  Look at the line of that face.  Don’t you see what I mean?”

They both gazed for a moment at the lonely woman.

“There is, of course, a certain beauty in Mrs. Chepstow’s face,” the Doctor said.