“Have you seen your friend, Doctor Isaacson, to-day?” she said, seeming to make an effort in changing the conversation.  “I like that man, though usually I dislike Jews because of their love for money.  I like him, and somehow I feel as if he had liked me the other night, as if he had felt kindly towards me.”

“Isaacson is a splendid fellow.  I haven’t seen him again.  He has been called away by a case.  We were to have ridden together this morning, but he sent to say it was impossible.  He has gone into the country.”

“Will he be away long?”

“I don’t know.  I hope not.  I want him here badly.”

“Oh?”

“I mean that he’s congenial to me in many ways, and that congenial spirits are rare.”

“You must have troops of friends.  You are a man’s man.”

“I don’t know.  What is a man’s man?”

“A man like you.”

“And a woman’s man?” he asked, drawing his chair a little towards her.

“Every man’s man is a woman’s man.”

“You say you cannot pretend.  Cannot you flatter?”

“I can pretend to that extent, and sometimes do.  But why should I flatter you?  I don’t believe you care a bit about it.  You love a kindly truth.  Who doesn’t?  I’ve just told you a kindly truth.”

“I should like to tell you some kindly truths,” he said.

“I’m afraid there are not many you, or any one else, could tell.  I dare say there are one or two, though, for I believe there is in every one of us a little bit—­almost infinitesimal, perhaps—­of ineradicable good, a tiny flame which no amount of drenching can ever extinguish.”

“I know it.”

“Oh, but it does want cherishing—­cherishing—­cherishing all the time, the tiny flame of ineradicable good.”

She took his cup quickly, and began to pour out some more tea for him, like one ashamed of an outburst and striving to cover it up by action.

“Bring Doctor Isaacson to see me one day—­if he’ll come,” she said, in a changed, cool voice, the non-committal voice of the trained woman of the world.

He felt that the real woman had for an instant risen to the surface, and had sunk again into the depths of her; that she was almost ashamed of this real, good woman.  And he longed to tell her so, to say to her, “Don’t be ashamed.  Let me see the real woman, the good woman.  That is the woman I seek when I am near you.”  But he did not dare to strike a blow on her reserve.

“I will bring Isaacson,” he said, quietly.  “I want him to know you really.  Why are you smiling?”

“But—­I am not smiling!”

Nor was she; and, seeing her quiet gravity and wonder, he was surprised that he had imagined it.

“I must tell you,” she said, “that though I took such a fancy to Doctor Isaacson, I don’t think he is like you; I don’t think he is a psychologist.”

“You think me a psychologist?” said Nigel, in very honest surprise.