Now Gerard Buckland, although he was very much in love, was not a fool. And it was not necessary to consider very deeply the facts connected with the brilliant Rachel Davison’s existence to feel quite certain that, however handsome and however attractive she might be, it was the height of folly to lose one’s heart to a woman of whom so much to her disadvantage was known to him. Look at the incidents of the day in whatever way he might, it was impossible to escape from the conclusion that Miss Davison’s share in them was one inconsistent with that innocence which, as she herself acknowledged, was not one of her most conspicuous qualities. That was the worst of it, that she did not deny the mystery about her, but challenged him to find it out if he could. She said in effect that she chose to go her own way, that her way was one of which he would not approve, and that she did not care what he thought. She meant to follow her own inclination, and she was tired of his pursuit, and desired him to leave her alone for the future. He on his side had made no pretense of hiding the fact that he did not mean to do so, and while more bewildered than ever by what he had seen and heard that day, he maintained his determination to try every means in his power to get at the root of the mystery, and to find out the secret which was poisoning her life. For that Rachel was unhappy he was sure. He remembered her face as he had first seen it a year ago at the Aldingtons’ house, how bright her eyes were, how ringing her voice was. Now, although she was handsomer than ever in his eyes, with that sort of suggestion of thought and care underlying her beauty, which made it pathetic and haunting, now that the outline of her face had sharpened and grown more refined than ever, there was a look in her face which had never been in it before, a sort of defiant expression, as if she had made up her mind to a certain distasteful course of action, and meant to persevere in it in spite of everything. Gerard was aware that this view of the change in the beauty might be a somewhat fanciful one; but fancy is generally very busy in the brain of a young man in love, and that he was still in love with Rachel Davison in the face of all he knew and all that he suspected, he had to acknowledge. Was she a thief? That he would not believe. Was she a kleptomaniac? That was even more difficult to admit, since it was plain that, if kleptomania were a disease, it could not pay, whereas the occupation followed by Rachel certainly appeared to pay very well. If she had really been the heroine of the scene at the stores that day, she must, he knew, have found someone ready to stand by her, and to tell some story which found acceptance in the eyes of the persons concerned in the charge, and saved her from prosecution.