That notion then he took to be disposed of.
He had suggested to her that she was a journalist, and if she had been one, common sense would have made her confess at once and add that she did not wish the fact generally known.
What then was left? She could not possibly be on the stage without the knowledge and consent of either Lady Jennings or her mother.
What other calling was open to her?
She had herself bewailed the fact that women can do so little, and that so few callings were really open to them.
Yet here was she, admittedly without training in any direction, making what must be a good income.
Gerard tormented himself all that day and the next by these and similar thoughts, all leading in the same unpleasant and unwelcome direction.
The next day when he was waiting outside the tea room in Piccadilly, he was in such a state of morbid excitement and harassed thought, that he wished he had asked her to put off the appointment, to give him time to find out, before seeing her again, what he wanted to know about her mysterious way of life.
He had not to wait very long, for Rachel, being used to business appointments, was punctual. He soon saw Lady Jennings’ victoria driving up, and saw that Rachel herself, very quietly but well-dressed in striped black and white silk, with black hat, black gloves, and a black and white sunshade, was the sole occupant.
He helped her out of the carriage and saw that she looked rather flushed, a fact which added to her beauty, and then he led her into the tea room.