“What do you mean, father?” he asked very earnestly. “Felicia--she is only waiting, Raine.” “Felicia!” “Yes. Who else?” Raine passed his hand through his hair and walked to and fro about the room, his hands dug deep in his pockets. The old man followed him with his eyes, anxiously, not comprehending. Suddenly Raine stopped short before him. “Father, I haven't been a brute. I haven't trifled with her. I never suspected it. I liked her for her own sake, because she is a bright, likeable girl--and I am fond of her for your sake. But I have never, to my knowledge, led her to suppose--believe me.” And then the old man saw his plans for Raine's future fall in desolation round him like a house of cards. “I don't understand,” he said rather piteously, “if she is the attraction--” “It is not little Felicia.” “Ah!” said the old man, with the bitter pang of disappointment. He rested his head on his hand, dejectedly. “I had set my heart upon it. That was why, the first day you came, I spoke of her coming back to Oxford with us. Poor little girl! Heaven knows what will happen to her, when I tell her.” “Tell her! You mustn't do that, dad. She must learn it for herself. It will be best for her. I will be very careful--very careful--she will see--and her pride will come to her help. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go away--for an indefinite time. Rogers and three men are climbing in Switzerland. I shall pack up my things and go and join them to-morrow; I have a list of their dates.” He searched for it among the papers in his pocket-book. “Chamonix! Their being so close will be a good excuse. When I come back--it will only be for a short time--this break will make it easier to modify my attitude.” “Let us think what would be best,” said the professor with an old man's greater slowness of decision. “I have made up my mind,” said Raine. “I go to-morrow.” Just then a rap was heard at the door, and a moment afterwards Felicia appeared, bringing her daily task of copy. She handed the professor the manuscript--and while he looked through it mechanically, she stood like a school-girl before her master, with clasped hands, waiting pleasurably for the little word of praise. “There is going to be a specially gorgeous _fête_ on the lake to-night, Mr. Chetwynd,” she said brightly, turning to Raine. “Won't it be like the other one?” “Oh, much more so! There is a royal Duke of somewhere or other staying at the National, and the municipality mean to show him what they can do. I am so fond of these _fêtes venétiennes_. You're coming, aren't you, professor?” “I don't know, my dear,” replied the old man. “The night air isn't good for me.” Then he added, closing the manuscript, “It is beautifully done. I shall grudge giving it to the printers.” “But you'll get it all back again,” said Felicia. “Send it to me afterwards, and I'll bind it up beautifully with blue ribbon.”