Louis could sympathize with these preferences; he, too, liked to walk up and down the Embankment in the summer twilight--though why such abrupt stoppages?
Why such impetuous speed?
He could understand a human being finding a remote interest in the Houses of Parliament, but he could not understand why Mrs.Nevill Tyson should love to linger outside the doors of the War Office.
Her ways were indeed inscrutable; but he had learnt to know them all, not a gesture escaped him.

How well he knew the turn of her head and the sudden flash of her face as they entered a theatre, and her eyes swept the house, eager, expectant, dubious; how well he knew the excited touch on his sleeve, the breath half-drawn, the look that was a confidence and an enigma; knew, too, the despondent droop of her eyes when the play was done and it was all over; the tightening of her hand upon his arm, and the shrinking of the whole tiny figure as they made their way out through the crowd.

She had spirit enough for anything; but her nerves were all on edge--she was so easily tired, so easily startled.
Day after day, and night after night; it was evident that at this rate she and Tyson were bound to see each other some time, somewhere.
Stanistreet wondered whether that thought had ever occurred to her.

And if they met--well, he could not tell whether he desired or feared to see that meeting.

In all probability it would put an end to doubt.