“My poor little darling,” said the old man tenderly, “we did it all for the best.” She stood by him in silence for a long time, while he petted her hand. At last she gathered strength. “Tell him,” she said, “that it was all a mistake--that he acted nobly and generously and delicately--but that I smiled when I heard it. Tell him that I smiled, won't you, dear professor? See, I am smiling--quite gaily, like the Felicia you spoil. And now,”--she withdrew her hand gently--“I am going to telegraph to him. He and I together will soon bring you round again--but I alone am not sufficient.” She administered a few feminine touches to the things on the table beside him, and went upon her self-imposed errand. _“I should like you to return as quickly as possible._ _“Chetwynd.”_ She composed the wording of the telegram on her way to the office. It kept her from thinking of other things. “There,” she said to herself as she wrote. “That will not alarm him.” Meanwhile the invalid was sorely puzzled. “I have made a mess of it from beginning to end,” he murmured wearily. “And yet I don't think it can be dotage yet awhile. Let me reason it all out.” His eyes closed. He had put the argument into a syllogism in _Barbara_, when his brain refused to act, and he fell asleep. CHAPTER XII.--ELECTRICITY IN THE AIR. The waiter who brought Felicia's telegram into the smoking-room found Raine walking up and down, pipe in mouth, in a state of caged irritation. A fine, penetrating rain was falling outside, the wet dribbled down the windows, the air was impregnated with mist, and great rolls of fog hid the mountains. The guides had prophesied a clearing up of the weather at midday, but it was half-past eleven, and the prospect was growing drearier every minute. Hockmaster was yawning over a cigar and a battered copy of the _Louisville Guardian_ which some compatriot had bequeathed to the hotel. Raine seized the telegram eagerly, read it, crumpled it into his pocket in some excitement, and turned to the waiter. “There is a diligence to Cluses--when does it start?” “At 12.15, Monsieur.” “And the train to Geneva?” “At 5.50.” “Good. Secure me a seat in the diligence, and have my bill made out.” The waiter bowed and departed. “I am sorry to break our engagement to-day, Hockmaster,” said Raine to the American, who had been watching the effect of the telegram with some curiosity, “but I must start for Geneva at once.” “I like that,” replied Hockmaster; “it's slick. Nothing like making up your mind in a minute. It's the way to do business. I guess I'll come too.” “You'll have a disgusting drive,” said Raine, viewing the proposal with less than his usual cordiality. “That's so,” retorted the other imperturbably, “I wasn't expecting the sun to shine just because I choose to travel. I am a modest man.” “Well, hurry up,” said Raine, seeing that the American was decided. “Perhaps you're wise in getting out of this.”