And he had been going to write a book about her, and it was she herself
who had given him the idea!
But was it? There had been much light talk about Mrs. Steel's novel, and
the plot that Mrs. Steel had given Langholm, but that view of the matter
had been more of a standing joke than an intellectual bond between
them. It was strange to think of it in the former light to-night.
Langholm recalled more than one conversation upon the same subject. It
had had a fascination for Rachel, which somehow he was sorry to remember
now. Then he recollected the one end to all these conversations, and his
momentary regret was swept away by a rush of sympathy which it did him
good to feel. They had ended invariably in her obtaining from him, on
one cunning pretext or another, a fresh assurance of his belief in Mrs.
Minchin's innocence. Langholm radiated among his roses as his memory
convinced him of this. Rachel had not talked about her case and his plot
for the morbid excitement of discussing herself with another, but for
the solid and wholesome satisfaction of hearing yet again that the other
disbelieved in her guilt.
And did he not? Langholm stood still in the scented dusk as he asked his
heart of hearts the point-blank question.
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