“I shouldn’t wish to do that.”

“No, I knew!  Still—­”

He took out a handkerchief and touched his lips and his forehead with it.

“She has been really so wonderful!” he said—­“waiting on him hand and foot, and giving herself no rest night or day.”

“Well, but her maid?  Wasn’t she able to be of service?”

“Her maid?  What maid?”

“Her French maid.”

A smile of pity moved the corners of the young man’s mouth.

“She hasn’t got one.  She sent her away long ago.  Merely to please him.  Oh, I assure you it isn’t all milk and honey with Mr. Armine.”

Isaacson motioned towards the inner part of the vessel.

“And she’s not come back?  The maid’s never come back?”

“Of course not.  You do so misunderstand her—­Mrs. Armine.”

Isaacson said nothing.  He felt that a stroke of insincerity was wanted here, but something that seemed outside of his will forbade him to give it.

“That is what has caused all this,” continued Hartley.  “I shouldn’t really have objected to a consultation so much, if it had come about naturally.  But no medical man—­you spoke very seriously of the case just now.”

“I think very seriously of it.”

“So do I, of course.”

Doctor Hartley pursed his lips.

“Of course.  I saw from the first it was no trifle.”

Isaacson said nothing.

“I say, I saw that from the first.”

“I’m not surprised.”

There was a pause in which the elder doctor felt as if he saw the younger’s uneasiness growing.

“You’ll forgive me for saying it, Doctor Isaacson, but—­but you don’t understand women,” said Hartley, at last.  “You don’t know how to take them.”

“Perhaps not,” Isaacson said, with an apparent simplicity that sounded like humility.

Doctor Hartley looked more at his ease.  Some of his cool self-importance returned.

“No,” he said.  “Really!  And I must say that—­you’ll forgive me?”

“Certainly.”

“—­that it has always seemed to me as if, in our walk of life, that was half the battle.”

“Knowing how to take women?”

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”  He looked at the young man as if with admiration.  “Yes, I dare say you are right.”

Doctor Hartley brightened.

“I’m glad you think so.  Now, a woman like Mrs. Armine—­”

The mention of the name recalled him to anxiety.  “One moment!” he almost whispered.  He went lightly away and in a moment as lightly returned.

“It’s all right!  She’ll sleep for some hours, probably.  Now, a woman like Mrs. Armine, a beautiful, celebrated woman, wants a certain amount of humouring.  And you don’t humour her.  See?”

“I expect you know.”

Isaacson did not tell of that sheet of glass through which Mrs. Armine and he saw each other too plainly.