Said about a woman like Mrs. Chepstow by a man of Nigel’s youth, and strength, and temperament, that could only mean one of two things, a liaison or a marriage.  Which did it mean?  Isaacson tried to infer from Nigel’s tone and manner.  His friend had seemed embarrassed, had certainly been embarrassed.  But that might have been caused by something in his, Isaacson’s, look or manner.  Though Nigel was enthusiastic and determined, he was not insensitive to what was passing in the mind of one he admired and liked.  He perhaps felt Isaacson’s want of sympathy, even direct hostility.  On the other hand, he might have been embarrassed by a sense of some obscure self-betrayal.  Often men talk of uplifting others just before they fall down themselves.  Was he going to embark on a liaison with this woman whom he pitied?  And was he ashamed of the deed in advance?

A marriage would be such madness!  Yet something in Isaacson at this moment almost wished that Nigel contemplated marriage—­his secret admiration of the virtue in his friend.  Such an act would be of a piece with Nigel’s character, whereas a liaison—­and yet Nigel was no saint.

Isaacson thought what the world would say, and suddenly he knew the reality of his affection for Nigel.  The idea of the gossip pained, almost shocked him; of the gossip and bitter truths.  A liaison would bring forth almost disgusted and wholly ironical laughter at the animal passions of man, as blatantly shown by Nigel.  And a marriage?  Well, the verdict on that would be, “Cracky!”

Isaacson’s brain could not dispute the fact that there would be justice in that verdict.  Yet who does not secretly love the fighter for lost causes?

“I shall look after her.”

The expression fitted best the cruder, more sordid method of gaining possession of this woman.  And men seem made for falling.

The nargeeleh was finished, but still Isaacson sat there.  Whatever happened, he would never protest to Nigel.  The feu sacre in the man would burn up protest.  Isaacson knew that—­in a way loved to know it.  Yet what tears lay behind—­the tears for what is inevitable, and what can only be sad!  And he seemed to hear again the symphony which he had heard that night with Nigel, the unyielding pulse of life, beautiful, terrible, in its monotony; to hear its persistent throbbing, like the beating of a sad heart—­which cannot cease to beat.

Upon the window suddenly there came a gust of wild autumn rain.  He got up and went to bed.

X

Very seldom did Meyer Isaacson allow his heart to fight against the dictates of his brain; more seldom still did he, presiding over the battle, like some heathen god of mythology, give his conscious help to the heart.  But all men at times betray themselves, and some betrayals, if scarcely clever, are not without nobility.  Such a betrayal led him upon the following day to send a note to Mrs. Chepstow, asking for an appointment.  “May I see you alone?” he wrote.