Only the unyielding Jew-hater hated him.  And so the lines of the life of Doctor Meyer Isaacson seemed laid in pleasant places.  And not a few thought him one of the fortunate of this world.

One morning of June the doctor was returning to Cleveland Square from his early ride in the Park.  He was alone.  The lively bay horse he rode—­an animal that seemed almost as full of nervous vitality as he was—­had had a good gallop by the Serpentine, and now trotted gently towards Buckingham Palace, snuffing in the languid air through its sensitive nostrils.  The day was going to be hot.  This fact inclined the Doctor to idleness, made him suddenly realise the bondage of work.  In a few minutes he would be in Cleveland Square; and then, after a bath, a cup of coffee, a swift glance through the Times and the Daily Mail, there would start the procession that until evening would be passing steadily through his consulting-room.

He sighed, and pulled in his horse to a walk.  To-day he was reluctant to encounter that procession.

And yet each day it brought interest into his life, this procession of his patients.

Generally he was a keen man.  He had no need to feign an ardour that he really felt.  He had a passion for investigation, and his profession enabled him to gratify it.  Very modern, as a rule, were those who came to him, one by one, admitted each in turn by his Jewish man-servant; complex, caught fast in the net of civilized life.  He liked to sit alone with them in his quiet chamber, to seek out the hidden links which united the physical to the mental man in each, to watch the pull of soul on body, of body on soul.  But to-day he recoiled from work.  Deep down in his nature, hidden generally beneath his strong activity, there was something that longed to sit in the sunshine and dream away the hours, leaving all fates serenely, or perhaps indifferently, between the hands of God.

“I will take a holiday some day,” he said to himself, “a long holiday.  I will go far away from here, to the land where I am really at home, where I am in my own place.”

As he thought this, he looked up, and his eyes rested upon the brown facade of the King’s Palace, upon the gilded railings that separated it from the public way, upon the sentries who were on guard, fresh-faced, alert, staring upon London with their calmly British eyes.

“In my own place,” he repeated to himself.

And now his lips and his eyes were smiling.  And he saw the great drama of London as something that a schoolboy could understand at a glance.