And what could it be but love?
The woman knew; and though the tragedy of her life was so close behind her; nay, though mystery and suspicion encompassed her still, as they might until her death, the woman thrilled.
It was a thrill of excitement chiefly, but excitement was not the only element.

There was the personal factor, too; there was the fascination which this man had for her, which he could exert at will, and which he was undoubtedly exerting now.
To escape from his eyes, to think but once more for herself, and by herself, Rachel rose at last, and looked from the window which lit this recess.
It was the usual November day in London; no sun; a mist, but not a fog; cabmen in capes, horses sliding on the muddy street, well-dressed women picking their way home from church--shabby women hurrying in shawls--hurrying as Rachel herself had done the night before--as she might again to-night.

And whither?
And whither, in all the world?
Rachel turned from the window with a shudder; she caught up the first newspaper of the sheaf upon the writing-table.

Steel had moved into the body of the room; she could not even see him through the alcove.

So much the better; she would discover for herself what they said.
Leading articles are easily found, and in a Sunday paper they are seldom long.