Tea appeared in a few minutes. As Isabel poured out two cups, her guest made a feint of closely examining a framed photograph of Knightswell, which stood on the table. He was less at his ease than on the tiled floor of the conservatory; the dried mud upon his boots showed brutally against the dark carpet, disposing him to savage humorousness. He became aware that the beverage was silently held out to him. Her own cup in hand, Mrs. Clarendon reclined in her chair, and gradually her eyes fixed themselves upon him. He was conscious of the look before he returned it, and, speaking at length, did so as if in reply to a question, though himself interrogative. “Did you ever visit a London hospital?” Isabel manifested no surprise; her face had even a quiet smile of satisfaction. “Yes,” she answered. “I once went to see a servant in St. Thomas’s.” “Ah, I was studying there--let me see, six years ago. My father was a medical man, and determined that I should be the same. At his death I gave it up; I hadn’t finished my course.” “It was not to your taste?” “I loathed it. My bad dreams are still of hospital wards and dissecting-rooms. I cannot bear to see the word ‘hospital’ in print. The experience of those years has poisoned my life, as thoroughly as a slip of the lancet would have poisoned my blood.” “Had you that dislike from the commencement?” Isabel asked, after putting down her empty cup, and crossing her hands on her lap with an air of attention. “No, not in the same degree. I thought this profession would do as well as another. I believe I even had philanthropic glows now and then, and perhaps even a period of scientific interest. The latter did not survive the steps from theory to practice; the former----” He made a motion with his hand, and smiled. “The very last thing I should ever have associated with you,” remarked Isabel, with puzzled thoughtfulness. “A philanthropic zeal?” “I didn’t mean that, but I am not sure that I mayn’t include it. Please go on.” Kingcote was resting his forehead on his palm; he resumed without raising his eyes. “My father practised at Norwich--by-the-bye, our friend, Sir Thomas Browne’s city. When he died, I went to live with my mother for a while; my sister had just married and gone to London, and a sister of my fathers shared our house. I thought of all sorts of things--law, literature (of course), even commerce. For I had a small capital--some shares in a joint-stock bank; they gave me a sufficient income, and I could realise when I needed. For a year I made plans; then of a sudden I found myself in Paris. You know the Continent?” “I was in the Riviera for a month, some years ago,” Isabel answered, without interest. “I can’t afford to go abroad now.” It was the second time she had used this phrase. Kingcote watched her countenance. “What took you to Paris?” she inquired, ignoring the diversion.