The first instinct of girls in general, on being told of anything which interests them, is to ask a multitude of questions, and then to run off, and talk it all over with some favourite friend.  Rachel Verinder’s first instinct, under similar circumstances, was to shut herself up in her own mind, and to think it over by herself.  This absolute self-dependence is a great virtue in a man.  In a woman it has a serious drawback of morally separating her from the mass of her sex, and so exposing her to misconstruction by the general opinion.  I strongly suspect myself of thinking as the rest of the world think in this matter—­except in the case of Rachel Verinder.  The self-dependence in her character, was one of its virtues in my estimation; partly, no doubt, because I sincerely admired and liked her; partly, because the view I took of her connexion with the loss of the Moonstone was based on my own special knowledge of her disposition.  Badly as appearances might look, in the matter of the Diamond—­shocking as it undoubtedly was to know that she was associated in any way with the mystery of an undiscovered theft—­I was satisfied nevertheless that she had done nothing unworthy of her, because I was also satisfied that she had not stirred a step in the business, without shutting herself up in her own mind, and thinking it over first.

We had walked on, for nearly a mile I should say before Rachel roused herself.  She suddenly looked up at me with a faint reflection of her smile of happier times—­the most irresistible smile I have ever seen on a woman’s face.

“I owe much already to your kindness,” she said.  “And I feel more deeply indebted to it now than ever.  If you hear any rumours of my marriage when you get back to London contradict them at once, on my authority.”

“Have you resolved to break your engagement?” I asked.

“Can you doubt it?” she returned proudly, “after what you have told me!”

“My dear Miss Rachel, you are very young—­and you may find more difficulty in withdrawing from your present position than you anticipate.  Have you no one—­I mean a lady, of course—­whom you could consult?”

“No one,” she answered.

It distressed me, it did indeed distress me, to hear her say that.  She was so young and so lonely—­and she bore it so well!  The impulse to help her got the better of any sense of my own unfitness which I might have felt under the circumstances; and I stated such ideas on the subject as occurred to me on the spur of the moment, to the best of my ability.  I have advised a prodigious number of clients, and have dealt with some exceedingly awkward difficulties, in my time.  But this was the first occasion on which I had ever found myself advising a young lady how to obtain her release from a marriage engagement.  The suggestion I offered amounted briefly to this.  I recommended her to tell Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite—­at a private interview, of course—­that he had,