When Doctor Meyer Isaacson had finished speaking, that face had been a still but searching question; and almost immediately a question had come from the red lips.
"Is there absolutely no unhealthy condition of body such as might be expected to produce low spirits? You see how medically I speak!"
"None whatever. You are not even gouty, and three-quarters, at least, of my patients are gouty in some form or other."
Mrs. Chepstow frowned.
"Then what would you advise me to do?" she asked. "Shall I go to a priest? Shall I go to a philosopher? Shall I go to a Christian Science temple? Or do you think a good dose of the 'New Theology' would benefit me?"
She spoke satirically, yet Doctor Isaacson felt as if he heard, far off, faintly behind the satire, the despair of the materialist, against whom, in certain moments, all avenues of hope seem inexorably closed. He looked at Mrs. Chepstow, and there was a dawning of pity in his eyes as he answered:
"How can I advise you?"
"How indeed? And yet—and that's a curious thing—you look as if you could."
"If you are really a convinced materialist, an honest atheist—"
"I am."