"What does he mean by—looking after you?" he said.
And now, almost without knowing it, he spoke sternly, and his dark face was full of condemnation.
"What did you mean when you said that 'others' have done it?"
"Then it is that!"
Isaacson had not meant to speak the words, but they escaped from his lips. No passing light in her eyes betrayed that she had caught the reflection of the thought that lay behind them.
"Men! Men!" his mind was saying. "And—even Armine!"
"You are afraid for the Fayyūm?" she said.
"Oh, Mrs. Chepstow!" he began, with a sudden vehemence that suggested the unchaining of a nature. Then he stopped. Behind his silence there was a flood of words—words to describe her temperament and Armine's, her mode of life and Armine's, what she deserved—and he; words that would have painted for Mrs. Chepstow not only the good in Isaacson's friend, but also the secret good in Isaacson, shown in his love of it, his desire to keep it out of the mud. And it was just this secret good that prevented Isaacson from speaking. He could not bear to show it to this woman. Instinctively she knew, appreciated, what was, perhaps, not high-minded in him. Let her be content with that knowledge. He would not make her the gift of his goodness.
And—to do so would be useless.
"Yes?" she said.