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. Rachel was soon through the first, her blood boiling; the second
she could not finish for her tears; the third dried her eyes with the
fires of fierce resentment. It was not so much what they said; it was
what they were obviously afraid to say. It was their circumlocution,
their innuendo, their mild surprise, their perfunctory congratulations,
their assumption of chivalry and their lack of its essence, that wounded
and stung the subject of these effusions. As she raised her flushed face
from the last of them, Mr. Steel stood before her once more, the
incarnation of all grave sympathy and consideration.

"You must not think," said he, "that my proposal admits of no