For the first time since he had been with her that night Meyer Isaacson felt that perhaps he had caught a glimpse of her true self, had drawn near to the essential woman.

The waiter brought their coffee, and Mrs. Chepstow added, with a little laugh: 

“Even a meal eaten alone is no pleasure to a woman.  To-night, till you came to take pity upon me, I should have been far happier with ‘something on a tray’ in my own room.  But now I feel quite convivial.  Isn’t the coffee here good?”

Suddenly she looked cheerful, almost gay.  Happiness seemed to blossom within her.

“Never mind if you lie awake for once, Doctor Isaacson,” she continued, looking across at him.  “You will have done a good action; you will have cheered up a human being who had been feeling down on her luck.  That talk I had with a doctor had depressed me most horribly, although I told myself that I didn’t believe a word he said.”

Meyer Isaacson sipped his coffee and said nothing.

“I think one of the wickedest things one can do in the world is to try to take any comforting and genuine belief away from the believer,” said Armine, with energy.

“Would you leave people even in their errors?” said the Doctor.  “Suppose, for instance, you saw some one—­some friend—­believing in a person whom you knew to be unworthy, would you make no effort to enlighten him?”

He spoke very quietly—­almost carelessly.  Mrs. Chepstow fixed her big blue eyes on him and for a moment forgot her coffee.

“Perhaps I should.  But you know my theory.”

“Oh—­to be sure!”

Meyer Isaacson smiled.  Mrs. Chepstow looked from one man to the other quickly.

“What theory?  Don’t make me feel an outsider,” she said.

“Mr. Armine thinks—­may I, Armine?”

“Of course.”

“Thinks that belief in the goodness, the genuineness of people helps them to become good, genuine, so that the unworthy might be made eventually worthy by a trust at first misplaced.”

“Mr. Armine is—­” She checked herself.  “It is a pity the world isn’t full of Mr. Armines,” she said, softly.

Armine flushed, almost boyishly.

“I wish my doctor knew you, Mr. Armine.  If you create by believing, I’m sure he destroys by disbelieving.”

As she said the last words, her eyes met Meyer Isaacson’s, and he saw in them, or thought he saw, a defiance that was threatening.

The lights winked.  Mrs. Chepstow got up.

“They’re going to turn us out.  Let us anticipate them—­by going.  It’s so dreadful to be turned out.  It makes me feel like Eve at the critical moment of her career.”

She led the way from the big room.  As she passed among the tables, every man, and almost every woman, turned to stare at her as children stare at a show.  She seemed quite unconscious of the attention she attracted.  But when she bade good night to the two friends in the hall, she said: