what he had already half suspected, that, though not strictly intellectual—­often another name for boring—­she was far more than merely shrewd.  But her mentality seemed to him hard as bronze.  And as bronze reflects the light, her mentality seemed to reflect all the cold lights in her nature.  But he forgot the stagnant town, the bald-headed man at the club window, the organ and “The Manola.”  Despite her generalizing on men, with its unexpressed avowal of her deep-seated belief in physical weapons, she had chosen aright in her armoury.  His brain had to acknowledge it.  There again was the link between them.  When at last he got up to go, she said: 

“I suppose you will soon be leaving London?”

“I expect to get away on the fifteenth.  Are you staying on?”

“I dare say I shall.  You wonder what I do here?”

“Yes.”

“I am out a great deal on my balcony.  When you came I was there.”

She made a movement towards it.

“Would you like to see my view?”

“Thank you.”

As he followed her through the window space, he was suddenly very conscious of the physical charm that clung about her.  All her movements were expressive, seemed very specially hers.  They were like an integral part of a character—­her character.  They had almost the individuality of an expression in the eyes.  And in her character, in her individuality, mingled with much he hated was there not something that charmed?  He asked himself the question as he stood near her on the balcony.  And now, escaped from her room, even at this height there came upon him again the hot sluggishness of London.  The sun was shining brightly, the air was warm and still, the view was large and unimpeded; but he felt a strange, almost tropical dreariness that seemed to him more dreadful than any dreariness of winter.

“Do you spend much of your time here?” he said.

“A great deal.  I sit here and read a book.  You don’t like it?”

She turned her bright eyes, with their dilated pupils, slowly away from his, and looked down over the river.

“I do.  But there’s a frightful dreariness in London on such a day as this.  Surely you feel it?”

“No.  I don’t feel such things this summer.”

In saying the words her voice had altered.  There was a note of triumph in it.  Or so Isaacson thought.  And that warmth, as of hope, in her had surely strengthened, altering her whole appearance.

“One has one’s inner resources,” she added, quietly, but with a thrill in her voice.

She turned to him again.  Her tall figure—­she was taller than he by at least three inches—­was beautiful in its commanding, yet not vulgar, self-possession.  Her thin and narrow hands held the balcony railing rather tightly.  Her long neck took a delicate curve when she turned her head towards him.  And nothing that time had left of beauty to her escaped his eyes.  He had eyes that were very just.