"I shall be in Assouan and Cairo presently," said Isaacson.
Mrs. Armine yawned and pulled at the chair. Her face twitched under her veil. She looked almost terribly alive, as if indeed her mind were in a state of ferment. Yet there was in her aspect also a sort of half-submerged sluggishness. Despite her vindictive agitation, her purposeful venom, she seemed already partially bound by a cloud of sleep. That she had cast away her power to charm as useless was the greatest tribute that Isaacson had ever had paid to his seeing eyes.
"Really! What has that to do with me? Do you suppose I am attending this case surreptitiously?" said Hartley.
He forced a laugh.
"No; but I think it very possible that you may regret ever having had anything to do with it."
In spite of himself, the young doctor was impressed by this new manner of the older man. For a moment he was partially emancipated from Mrs. Armine. For a moment he was rather the rising, not yet risen, medical man than the fully risen young man in love with a fascinating woman. When he chose, Isaacson could hold almost anybody. That was part of the secret of his success as a doctor. He could make himself "believed in."
"Some mistakes ring through the world," Isaacson added quietly. "I should not care to be the doctor who made one of them."
Mrs. Armine, with a sharp movement, twisted the chair quite round, pulled at one side of her dress, and sat down.
"But surely—" Doctor Hartley began.
"This really is the most endless consultation over a case that ever was!" said Mrs. Armine.