“Nigel!  Nigel!  What do you think of my surprise?”

There were energy and beauty in the cry, and she came into the room with a sort of soft rush that was intensely feminine.  The men were there.  Nigel was sitting up, but leaning against cushions on the divan close to the upright piano, on which stood the score of “Gerontius.”  Isaacson was standing before him, bending, and holding both his hands strongly, in an attitude that looked almost violent.  Behind him, in the Eastern house of Baroudi the spray of the little fountain aspired, and the tiny gilded ball rose and fell with an airy and frivolous movement.

Mrs. Armine was not reasoning as she came in to these two.  She was acting purely on the prompting of an instinct long proved by life.  There was within her no mental debate.  She did not know how long she had stood alone.  She did not ask herself whether Meyer Isaacson had had time to say anything, or, if he had had time, what it was likely that he had said.  She just came in with this soft rush, went to her husband, sat down touching him, put her hand on his shoulder, with the fingers upon his neck, and said: 

“What do you think of my surprise?  I dared it!  Was I wrong?  Has it done you any harm, Nigel?”

As she spoke she looked at the face of Isaacson and she knew that he had not spoken.  A natural flush came to join the flush of rouge on her cheeks.

“Nigel, you’ve got to forgive me!” she said.

“Forgive you!”

The weak voice spoke with a stronger note than it had found on the balcony.  Isaacson let go his friend’s hands.  He moved.  The almost emotional protectiveness that had seemed mutely to exclaim, “I’ll save you!  Here’s a hand—­here are two strong hands—­to save you from the abyss!” died out of his attitude.  He stood up straight.  But he kept his eyes fastened on his friend.  Never in his consulting-room had he looked at any patient as he now looked at Nigel Armine, with such fiercely searching eyes.  His face said to the leaning man before him:  “Give up your secrets.  I mean to know them all.”

“Forgive you!” Nigel repeated.

Feebly he put out one hand and touched his wife.  He was looking almost dazed.

“And to-night, when I—­when I said, ‘If only Isaacson were here!’ did you know then?”

“That he was coming?  Yes, I knew.  And I nearly had to tell you—­so nearly!  But, you see, a woman can keep a secret.”

“How did you know?”

He looked at Isaacson.  But Isaacson let her answer.  It was enough for him that he was with his friend.  He did not care about anything else.  And all this time he was at doctor’s work.

“We met this morning in the temple of Edfou, and I told Doctor Isaacson about your sunstroke, and asked him to come up to-night and see you.”

She lied with the quiet aplomb which Isaacson remembered almost enjoying in the Savoy Restaurant one night, when they were grouped about a supper-table.  Quietly then she had handed him out the lies which he knew to be lies.  She had made him presents of them, and as he had received her presents then, he received them now, but a little more indifferently.  For he was deeply attentive to Nigel.