at Nigel, and looked away.

"Not this winter," he added, quietly.

"But--why not this winter?"

Nigel spoke with a slight embarrassment.

"I couldn't get away. I have too much work. You'll be in the Fayyum?"

Nigel was staring at the Oriental carpet. His strong hands lay palm
downwards on the arms of his chair, pressing them hard.

"I shall go there," he replied.

"And live under the tent? I met a man last night who knows you, an
Egyptian army man on leave, Verreker. He told me you were reclaiming
quite a lot of desert."

"I should like to reclaim far more than I ever can. It's a good task."

"Hard work?"

"Deuced hard. That's why I like it."

"I know; man's love of taming the proud spirit."

"Is it that? I don't think I bother much about what prompts me to a
thing. But--I say, Isaacson, sometimes it seems to me that you have a
devilish long sight into things, an almost uncanny long sight."

He leaned forward.

"But in you I don't mind it."

"I don't say I acknowledge it. But why should you mind it in any one?"

Nigel quoted some words of Mrs. Chepstow, but Isaacson did not know he
quoted.

"Hasn't the brain a tendency to overshadow, to brow-beat the heart?" he
said. "Isn't it often arrogant in its strength?"

"One must let both have an innings," said Isaacson, smiling at the slang
which suited him so little and suited Nigel so well.

"Yes, and I believe you do. That's why--but to go on with what we were
saying. You've got a long sight into things. Now, living generally, as
you do, here in London, don't you think that men and women living in
crowds often get off the line of truth and kindness? Don't you think
that being all together, backed up, as it were, by each other--as a
soldier is by his regiment when going into battle--they often become
hard, brutal, almost get the blood-lust into them at times?"

Isaacson did not reply for a moment.

"Perhaps sometimes they do," he answered at last.

"And don't you think they require sacrifices?"

"Do you mean human sacrifices?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps--sometimes."

"Why have you never been to call on Mrs. Chepstow?"

Again the sallow fingers began to play with the book-covers, passing
from one to another, but always slowly and gently.

"I haven't much time for seeing any one, except my patients, and the
people I meet in society."

"And of course you never meet Mrs. Chepstow in society."

"Well--no, one doesn't."

"She would have liked a visit