He drew a chair to the open French window. The room, being on the top storey, had no balcony, but a wrought-iron balustrade fixed on the outside of the jambs. He leant his arms over it and looked into the familiar street. He hated it. Geneva was intolerable. As soon as his father was able to travel, he would shake the dust of it from off his feet. A bantering letter had come that morning from his cousin, Mrs. Monteith, at Oxford. A phrase or two passed through his mind. Was he going to bring back two brides or half a one? “How damned vulgar women can be at times!” he exclaimed angrily, and he rose with impatience from his chair, as if to drive Mrs. Monteith from his thoughts. He unrolled Katherine's crumpled letter and read it through again. Then he thrust it into his pocket and decided to go and sit with his father. But, before he could reach the door, a knock was heard. He opened it, and to his surprise found Felicia. “You--is my father--?” “No. I want to speak to you. Can I?” “Do you mind coming in? It is not very untidy.” He held the door for her to pass in, then he closed it and came up to her enquiringly. Felicia stood in the middle of the room, with her hands behind her back, a favourite attitude. Her dark cheeks were flushed and her sensitive lips were parted, quivering slightly. “It's about Katherine!” she burst out suddenly. “Please let me talk, or I shall not be able to say what I want to. Since last night--when you kissed me--I have thought I might come to you--as your sister might--and because I care for you like that, I feel I can tell you. I have just been with Katherine. She is going away this afternoon.” “At once?” asked Raine, startled at the apparent rapidity of events. “Yes. Are you sending her away?” “I? Oh no.” “But why must she go, Raine? Tell me; need she go?” “Katherine is mistress of her own actions.” “Then you don't care?” She looked at him earnestly, with moist eyes. There was a note of passion in her voice, to which Raine, sympathetic, found himself responding. “What is the use of my caring, since she is going of her own accord without a word from me?” “But a word from you would make her stay.” “What do you know about all this?” he asked abruptly. “I know that you have broken her heart,” said Felicia. “Oh! knowing her--and loving her--it is hard not to forgive.” “There is no question of forgiveness,” replied Raine. “Did she tell you I would not forgive her?” “No. A woman does not need to be _told_ these things--she knows them and feels them. Must a woman always, always, always suffer? Why can't a man be great and noble sometimes--like Christ who forgave?”