“Mr. Chetwynd,” he said, lighting a fresh cigar, “I am about tired to death of these gilded saloons in continental hotels. Imitation palaces are not in my line. I should like something homier. I was thinking, if you could recommend me a snug sort of boarding-house in Geneva, it would be very good of you.” “Why not come to the one I am staying at?” said Raine good-naturedly. “There is a very companionable set of people there.” “Right,” replied Hockmaster. “That's real kind of you. When you come to Chicago, you track straight for Joseph K. Hockmaster. You'll find gratitude.” “My dear fellow!” laughed Raine deprecatingly. “No,” said the other in his serious way. “I repeat, it's real kind. Most of your countrymen would have shunted me off to another establishment. I think I tire folks by talking. I am always afraid. That's why I tell you to mention when you grow weary of conversation. It won't offend me. It's as natural for me to talk as it is for a slug to leave his slime behind him. I think I'm chock full of small ideas and they overflow in a liquid kind of way. Now big ideas are solider and roll out more slowly--like yours.” And he poured himself out the last glass of _fine champagne_ that remained in the decanter. They reached the pension at half-past seven. Mme. Boccard appeared at Raine's summons, wreathed in smiles, welcomed Hockmaster graciously and assigned him a room. Dinner had just begun, she had put it back half an hour, in compliment to Mr. Chetwynd. It was charming of him to have sent her a private telegram. Everyone was well; the professor had taken a turn for the better during the day. Raine went straight up to his father, and, to his intense relief, found his fears of a dangerous illness to be almost groundless. “And Felicia?” he asked, after the first affectionate questionings. “Well,” replied the old man--“very bonny. Do you know, Raine, I think we may have made a mistake. It has been all my fault. It would be the greatest kindness to forget--and to forgive your meddling old father.” Raine laughed in his kind way, reassuring the old man. “It was not I that sent for you,” continued the latter. “It was Felicia. There was no longer any reason for you to stop away--and she insisted. Girls' hearts are mysterious books. Don't search into hers, Raine. Forget it--seek your happiness where it is truest, my son--and then it will be mine.” Raine did not press the subject. He was somewhat puzzled, but he gathered that she had spoken and that silence would be the more delicate part. He postponed further consideration of the matter; for which he may be forgiven, as the longing for Katherine was tugging at his heart- strings. Besides, he was honestly very hungry, and dinner was in progress.