“Henriette!”

There was no reply.

“Henriette!” Mrs. Chepstow called again.

The door of the bedroom opened, and the French girl with red eyes appeared.

“Why don’t you answer when I speak to you?  How long have you been there?”

“Two or three minutes, madame,” said the girl, in a low voice.

“Did you meet any one in the corridor?”

“Yes, madame, a gentleman.”

“Coming from here?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Did he see you?”

“Naturally, madame.”

“I mean—­to notice you?”

“I think he did, madame.”

“And did he see you go into my room—­with those eyes?”

“Yes, madame.”

An angry frown contracted Mrs. Chepstow’s forehead, and her face suddenly became hard and looked almost old.

“Heavens!” she exclaimed.  “If there is a stupid thing to be done, you are sure to—­Go away! go away!”

The maid retreated quickly, and shut the door.

“Idiot!” Mrs. Chepstow muttered.

She knew the value of a last impression.

She went out on to her balcony and looked down to the Embankment, idly watching the traffic, the people walking by.

Although she did not know it, Nigel was among them.  He was strolling by the river.  He was looking at the sunset.  And he was thinking of the poet Browning, and of the woman whom love took from the shrouded chamber and set on the mountain peaks.

VII

Although Nigel Armine was an enthusiast, and what many people called an “original,” he was also a man of the world.  He knew the trend of the world’s opinion, he realized clearly how the world regarded any actions that were not worldly.  The fact that often he did not care did not mean that he did not know.  He was no ignorant citizen, and in his acquaintance with Mrs. Chepstow his worldly knowledge did not forsake him.  Clearly he understood how the average London man—­the man he met at his clubs, at Ranelagh, at Hurlingham—­would sum up any friendship between Mrs. Chepstow and himself.

“Mrs. Chepstow’s hooked poor old Armine!”

Something like that would be the verdict.

Were they friends?  Could they ever be friends?

Nigel had met Mrs. Chepstow by chance in the vestibule of the Savoy.  He had been with a racing man whom he scarcely knew, but who happened to know her well.  This man had introduced them to each other carelessly, and hurried away to “square things up with his bookie.”  Thus casually and crudely their acquaintance was begun.  How was it to continue?  Or—­was it to continue?

Nigel was a strong man in the flower of his life.  He was not a saint.  And he was beginning to wonder.  And Isaacson, who was again in town, was beginning to wonder, too.