They were not happy days. But she moved about the pension outwardly calm and serene, to all appearances her own self. The feeling of self-reproach for her cowardice wore off. She resigned herself to her lot. One sight of his face--and then the end of all things. She knew, with the knowledge of herself given by years of solitude and self-repression, that she would not falter in her second resolution. So centred, however, were her thoughts in the tragic side of her relations with Raine that she gave no heed to the possibility of gossip. None reached her ears. Her long sustained attitude of reserve, a superiority of personality, a certain dignity of manner and conduct, had won for her the respect, if not the love, of the pension. Even Frau Schultz, who hated her, found it impossible to utter the spiteful innuendo that trembled on her lips. But Mme. Popea, who was the chartered libertine of the pension, by reason of her good-nature and unblushing liberty of speech, summoned up courage one day to tread upon the ice. “Mon Dieu,” she said, as if by way of invoking the deity's aid in her venture, “it is getting dull again. I long to see Mr. Chetwynd back. “He makes himself missed,” replied Katherine calmly, continuing her sewing. Mme. Popea had come into her room with the ostensible purpose of borrowing a stiletto. It was one of her ways to stock her work-basket with loans. “If the dear professor grows worse, he will return soon, I suppose. They are like women to each other, those two--good ones, in the _vie de famille_ of novels. I hear the professor is much worse to-day.” “Who told you?” “Miss Graves. She is nursing him. What a charming girl! Her devotion to him is touching. It would be quite a romance if she married Monsieur Raine. He is so handsome.” Katherine regarded the plump, irresponsible lady with placid gravity. “You seem to take a romantic interest in them, Madame Popea.” “Mon Dieu, yes. Anything that concerns love is interesting, especially the idyllic. But you, Madame, would you be surprised if on his return they were betrothed?” “_Il ne faut jamais s'étonner de rien_,” quoted Katherine, smiling imperturbably. “I once thought he had a _tendresse_ for Madame,” ventured Mme. Popea archly. “Oh, Madame Popea,” laughed Katherine. “You know what men are--and we women ought never to tell each other our impressions. If I told you the flattering remarks I have heard about you this last fortnight, your head would be turned.” “Ah, who has spoken of me?” Katherine rose, took out a bonnet from a drawer and somewhat ostentatiously unrolled a veil, while she returned a laughing answer. “I am too old not to have learned discretion. It is my one vice.”