Rachel recovered herself. She still held his arm. She pressed nearer and was silent a moment. The steamer below the bank was brightly lit, the docks bustling and noisy. "You needn't go. Come and help me, and ask what you like. I think you love me a little. Perhaps I was wrong in the beginning."
They went back towards the house. Mavering admitted a degree of bewilderment. When Rachel was in a state of self-possession, it was difficult not to feel inferior. There were times—moments of weakness—when Mavering confessed a sensation towards her, never elsewhere directed, and which might be called respect—a hesitation, a summons somehow to draw back the great muddy river of event as well as the confluent stream of his own imperturbable comment, to turn them aside from pouring over her. It must have cost time and selection to make Rachel, and the Mississippi lacked discrimination.
Helen sat as before, listlessly. Rachel knelt beside her and whispered. Helen started; the listless hand gripped the arm of the chair with a vigor that tore the cushion. She broke from Rachel's arms.
"Where is he?"
"Gods!" murmured Mavering, in deprecation. "This race of women! About six miles back of the Creek landing."
"The steamer goes out at ten. Pack a basket, Rachel."
Helen left the room with a rush. Mavering looked after her with wakened interest. "Who and what is this?" Rachel came to him and pleaded.
"I owe her everything. You left me so desperate—"
"I left you? I seem to have forgotten that."