“No, thanks,” replied Raine. “I must go and fetch my pipe. When I come back you can tell me.” Deeply troubled about Katherine, he was not in the humour for Hockmaster's stories, and he seized eagerly at the excuse for being free from him for a time. He went out on to the balcony, with the intention of passing through to the drawing-room, where he expected to find Felicia. An idea had occurred to him which he was anxious to put into execution. But after passing two or three ladies, he discovered Felicia alone in the dimness of the furthest end of the balcony. “Felicia,'” he said, calling her for the first time by her Christian name, “you are a dear good girl--you will help me if you can. Has Katherine been ill during my absence?” The direct, frank appeal touched the girl to the heart. It seemed to raise her with one great leap in her own esteem, above all the burning shame she had suffered. Raine's vigorous, sympathetic instinct had pierced through externals to the innermost of her maidenhood. She answered his question gently. “No. She has been quite as usual all the time. But I think she has looked sadder these last few days.” “She has not been looking ill--as at dinner to-night?” “No. That was sudden.” And then with a strange, absolutely new, almost delicious sense of the strong man weakly depending upon her for comfort, she said timidly,-- “You mustn't be unhappy. She may have been longing for you to come back--for she loves you--and this evening--she is very delicate, you know. Sometimes when I am with her, she seems so fragile--she will be better to-morrow--and you will be happy.” “Ah! Thank you, Felicia,” said Raine, greatly moved. “I wish--I wish you would let me kiss you for it.” “Yes,” she whispered. He stooped, and touched her cheek with his lips, and then strode away feeling somehow stronger and serener. And Felicia remained on the balcony deep in thought, her girlish love purified by the brotherly kiss. CHAPTER XIII.--THE SOILING OF A PAGE. It was the large room in the Kursaal assigned to the _Cercle de Genève_. Of the two long green tables, one was deserted and in darkness, and the other, brilliantly lighted from overhanging green shades, was surrounded by a fair number of men. Except at short intervals between the hands, a decorous silence prevailed, broken only by the stereotyped phrases, _une carte, sept, neuf, baccara_, marking the progress of the game. But when the hand was over, voices rose, and above them was heard the sharp click of the mother-of-pearl counters and the chink of gold and silver, as the croupier, in the middle of the table, opposite the banker, settled losses and gains. Then the croupier,--“_Quarante louis dans la banque, vingt à chaque tableau. Faites vos jeux, messieurs. A cheval? Bien, monsieur. Bien, monsieur. Rien ne va plus!_” And then silence again while the hand was being played.