For a moment Rachel, as a newly constituted housewife to whom every square foot of furniture surface had its own peculiar importance, was enraged to see Julian’s heavy and dirty boots again on the seat of her unprotected chair.  But the sense of hurt passed like a spasm as her eyes caught Julian’s.  They were alone together in the back room and not far from each other.  And in the man’s eyes she no longer saw the savage Julian, but an intensely suffering creature, a creature martyrized by destiny.  She saw the real Julian glancing out in torment at the world through those eyes.  The effect of the vibration in Julian’s voice a few minutes earlier was redoubled.  Her emotion nearly overcame her.  She desired very much to succour Julian, and was aware of a more distinct feeling of impatience against Louis.

She thought Julian had been magnificently heroic, and all his faults of demeanour were counted to him for excellences.  He had been a thief; but the significance of the word “thief” was indeed completely altered for her.  She had hitherto envisaged thieves as rascals in handcuffs bandied along the streets by policemen at the head of a procession of urchins—­dreadful rascals!  But now a thief was just a young man like other young men—­only he had happened to see some bank-notes lying about and had put them in his pocket and then had felt very sorry for what he had done.  There was no crime in what he had done ... was there?  She pictured Julian’s pilgrimage through South Africa, all alone.  She pictured his existence at Knype, all alone; and his very ferocity rendered him the more wistful and pathetic in her sight.  She was sure that his mother and sisters had never understood him; and she did not think it quite proper on their part to have gone permanently to America, leaving him solitary in England, as they had done.  She perceived that she herself was the one person in the world capable of understanding Julian, the one person who could look after him, influence him, keep him straight, civilize him, and impart some charm to his life.  And she was glad that she had the status of a married woman, because without that she would have been helpless.

Julian sat down, or sank, on to the chair.

“I’m very sorry I spoke like that to you in the other room—­I mean about what you’d written,” she said.  “I suppose I ought not to have burnt it.”

She spoke in this manner because to apologize to him gave her a curious pleasure.

“That’s nothing,” he answered, with the quietness of fatigue.  “I dare say you were right enough.  Anyhow, ye’ll never see me again.”

She exclaimed, kindly protesting—­

“Why not, I should like to know?”

“You won’t want me here as a visitor, after all this.”  He faintly sneered.

“I shall,” she insisted.

“Louis won’t.”

She replied:  “You must come and see me.  I shall expect you to.  I must tell you,” she added confidentially, in a lower tone, “I think you’ve been splendid to-night.  I’m sure I respect you much more than I did before—­and you can take it how you like!”