She got up slowly. And still her movements were careless, but always full of a grace that was very individual.
"Remember," she said, "that I have spoken to you so frankly in your capacity as a physician."
"All I hear in this room I forget when I am out of it."
"Truly?" she said.
"At any rate, I forget to speak of it," he said, rather curtly.
"Good-bye," she rejoined.
She left him with a strange sensation, of the hopelessness that comes from greed and acute worldliness, uncombined with any, even subconscious, conception of other possibilities than purely material ones.
What could such a woman have to look forward to at this period of her life?
Doctor Isaacson was thinking about this now. He remained always perfectly motionless in his arm-chair, but he had abandoned the attempt to discipline his mind. He knew that to-day his brain would not repose with his limbs, and he no longer desired his usual rest-cure. He preferred to think—about Mrs. Chepstow.
She had made upon him a powerful impression. He recalled the look in her eyes when she had said that she was thirty-eight, a look that had seemed to command him to believe her. He had not believed her, yet he had no idea what her real age was. Only he knew that it was not thirty-eight. How determined she was not to suffer, to get through life—her one life, as she thought it—without distress! And she was suffering. He divined why. That was not difficult. She was "in low water." The tides of pleasure were failing. And she had nothing to cling to, clever woman though she was.