Finally, Hirst's odious words flicked his mind like a whip, and he remembered that he had left her talking to Hirst.
She was at this moment talking to him, and it might be true, as he said, that she was in love with him.

He went over all the evidence for this supposition--her sudden interest in Hirst's writing, her way of quoting his opinions respectfully, or with only half a laugh; her very nickname for him, "the great Man," might have some serious meaning in it.
Supposing that there were an understanding between them, what would it mean to him?
"Damn it all!" he demanded, "am I in love with her ?" To that he could only return himself one answer.

He certainly was in love with her, if he knew what love meant.

Ever since he had first seen her he had been interested and attracted, more and more interested and attracted, until he was scarcely able to think of anything except Rachel.

But just as he was sliding into one of the long feasts of meditation about them both, he checked himself by asking whether he wanted to marry her?
That was the real problem, for these miseries and agonies could not be endured, and it was necessary that he should make up his mind.