Katherine forced a smile and uttered a semi-articulate “yes.” Then her eyelids closed for a few seconds and quivered, as in a nervous attack. This sign of agitation could not escape Felicia's notice. She became aware that something was happening. A suspicion of a tragic element in the relations between the man she loved and the woman she hated, flitted in the twilight of her mind. The laugh died from her lips, as she looked more keenly at Katherine. She turned her glance towards Raine, saw his eyes fix themselves for a moment on Katherine with an indescribable expression of pain and longing. It was the first time she had seen for herself that he loved her. The pang of it gripped her heart. But she disregarded it. Again she remembered Frau Schultz's innuendoes and tittle-tattle, and involuntarily brought them to bear on the present situation. The impression left on her mind by the tragedy in the life of the poor little lady by her side had not yet been effaced. It aided in the suggestion of another tragedy in the lives of these two others. The strain upon herself had also somewhat exalted her system and produced a certain nervous sensitiveness. Something was happening--something fateful or tragic. A feeling akin to awe came over her young mind, and suppressed her own simpler girlish fancies. A silence fell upon her, as it had fallen upon Raine and Katherine. The constraint began to grow painful, the meal seemed endless. Hockmaster's voice in the distance began to irritate her nerves. At last the dinner was over. There was the usual scuffling of chairs and _frou-frou_ of skirts, as the guests rose. With a common impulse Raine and Katherine moved a step aside. “Katherine!” She put one hand up to her bosom, and steadied herself with the other on the back of her chair. “I am feeling very ill,” she said, thickly. “Don't think me cruel--I can't see you tonight. To-morrow. I shall be better then. You have seen I am not myself--this last hour has been martyrdom--forgive me--good-night.” “Don't forget that I love you, dear--let that give you strength,” said Raine, in a low voice. A cry came involuntarly to her lips, wrung from her suffering. “Ah, don't!” She turned quickly, and followed the departing guests. Raine stood bewildered, looking with contracted brow at her receding form. Hockmaster was standing at the door, his dinner napkin over his arm, a few yards away from the group of men who had remained to smoke. He opened the door a little wider for her. But she passed out like an automaton, looking neither to right nor left. The American closed the door, and came up to Raine. “Say, Chetwynd, can one get a liqueur brandy here?” “The waiter will be here in a minute for orders,” replied Raine. “How are you getting on?” “First class. Liveliest meal I've had since I dined on a burning ship sailing from New York to Cuba. Did I ever tell you the story?--My hell! It was a hot time! Have a cigar.”