BELLA DONNA




I


Doctor Meyer Isaacson had got on as only a modern Jew whose home is
London can get on, with a rapidity that was alarming. He seemed to have
arrived as a bullet arrives in a body. He was not in the heart of
success, and lo! he was in the heart of success. And no one had marked
his journey. Suddenly every one was speaking of him--was talking of the
cures he had made, was advising every one else to go to him. For some
mysterious reason his name--a name not easily to be forgotten once it
had been heard--began to pervade the conversations that were held in the
smart drawing-rooms of London. Women who were well, but had not seen
him, abruptly became sufficiently unwell to need a consultation. "Where
does he live? In Harley Street, I suppose?" was a constant question.

But he did not live in Harley Street. He was not the man to lose himself
in an avenue of brass plates of fellow practitioners. "Cleveland Square,
St. James's," was the startling reply; and his house was detached, if
you please, and marvellously furnished.

The winged legend flew that he was rich, and that he had gone into
practice as a doctor merely because he was intellectually interested in