Unconsciously to herself, the atmosphere of the pension had tainted the purity of her judgment. She had learned that little knowledge of things evil which is so dangerous. Katherine was not to her merely a rival, loving Raine Chetwynd with a fair, pure love like her own, but a scheming woman, one of those to whom love is a pastime, occupation, vanity--she knew not what--but still a thing unhonoured and conferring no honour on the man. And, as the days went on, this attitude became more definite, gaining stability in measure as the woman within her took the place of the child. The thought, too, took shape: why should she not use maidenly means to keep him by her side, when Katherine used unworthy ones? And with the thought her ashamedness wore off, and she began to battle bravely for her love. Katherine could not help noticing these signs of active rivalry. At first she was hurt. She would have dearly liked to retain Felicia's friendship. But what could she do? She was in her room one morning when the sound of a carriage drawing up in the street below, struck upon her ear. Out of idle curiosity she stepped upon the little balcony and looked down. Old Mr. Chetwynd, Raine and Felicia were going out for a drive. She watched them settle themselves laughingly in their places, and smiled not unkindly at Felicia's young radiant face. But as they drove off, Felicia glanced up, caught sight of her, and the expression changed. Its triumph smote Katherine with a sense of pain. She retired from the balcony wearily. A vague fancy came to her to go away from Geneva, to leave the field open for Felicia. She dallied with it for a moment. And then the fierce reaction set in. No. A thousand times no. Why should she be quixotic? Whoever in the world had acted quixotically towards her? Her life had been wrecked--up to now, without one gleam of light in any far-off haven. She had been tossed about by the waves, an idle derelict. Only lately had hope come. It was a wild, despairing hope, at the best--but it had kept her alive for the past six months Why should she give way to this young girl--untouched, untroubled save by this one first girlish fancy? All the world was before her, waiting with its tributes to throw at the feet of her youth and fairness and charm. In a few months she would go out into it again, leave the Pension Boccard and its narrowing life for ever. In a year it would be but a memory, Raine Chetwynd but a blushing episode. Many men would love her. She would have her pick of the noblest. Why should she herself then yield her single frail hope to her who had so many fair ones?