would far rather be alone than not have the exactly right companion—some one who could think and feel with me, and in the sort of way I feel. Any other companionship is destructive."
Isaacson spoke with less than his usual self-possession, and there were traces of heat in his manner.
"Don't you agree with me?" he added, as Nigel did not speak.
"People can learn to feel alike."
"You mean that when two natures come together, the stronger eventually dominates the weaker. I should not like to be dominated, nor should I like to dominate. I love mutual independence combined with perfect sympathy."
Even while he was speaking, he was struck by his own exigence, and laughed, almost ironically.
"But where to find it!" he exclaimed. "Those are right who put up with less. But you—I think you want more than I do, in a way."
He added that lessening clause, remembering, quite simply, how much more brilliant he was than Nigel.
"I like to give to people who don't expect it," Nigel said. "How hateful the Circus is!"
"Shall we take a cab to Cleveland Square?"
"Yes—I'll come in for a little."
When they were in the house, Nigel said:
"I want to thank you for your visit to Mrs. Chepstow."
He spoke abruptly, as a man does who has been for some time intending to say a thing, and who suddenly, but not without some difficulty, obeys his resolution.
"Why on earth should you thank me?"
"Because I asked you to go."
"Is Mrs. Chepstow still in London?"
"Yes. I saw her to-day. She talks of coming to Egypt for the winter."
"Cairo, I suppose?"
"I think she is sick of towns."
"Then no doubt she'll go up the Nile."
There was a barrier between them. Both men felt it acutely.
"If she goes—it is not quite certain—I shall look after her," said Nigel.
Meyer Isaacson said nothing; and, after a silence that was awkward, Nigel changed the conversation, and not long after went away. When he was gone, Isaacson returned to his sitting-room upstairs and lit a nargeeleh pipe. He had turned out all the electric burners except one, and as he sat alone there in the small room, so dimly lighted, holding the long, snake-like pipe-stem in his thin, artistic hands, he looked like an Eastern Jew. With a fez upon his head, Europe would have dropped from him. Even his expression seemed to have become wholly Eastern, in its sombre, glittering intelligence, and in the patience of its craft.
"I shall look after her."
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 sacré 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.
In the evening came an answer:
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