But the familiar, kindly tone suddenly awoke Felicia to the sense of their relations. She hung her head, confused. “Forgive me,” she said. “I ought not to have spoken like that to you--I lost control over myself. You mustn't think of what I have said.” “I'll think of it all through my life, Felicia,” said Raine. A silence fell upon them. The girl was shaken and weary. Raine was confronting a new hope, that made his heart beat. “Raine,” she said, after a while. He did not reply. She looked up, and saw him staring into the street. “By God!” he cried, suddenly, and before Felicia could realize what he was doing, he had seized his hat from the table and had rushed from the room, leaving the door open. Felicia leant over the balustrade, and looked down. Katherine was there, near the corner, in the act of giving over her dressing-bag to a lad in a blue blouse, who had offered his services. Felicia watched until she saw Raine emerge beneath the archway, stride like a man possessed after Katherine, catch her up, and lay his hand upon her arm, as she turned a startled face towards him. Then the tears came into her eyes, and she left the window and went down to her own room, where she locked herself in and cried miserably. Such is the apparently inconsequent way of women. “Katherine,” said Raine, when he came up with her. She stopped, and looked at him speechlessly. “I have just caught you in time,” he said, with masculine brusqueness. “We must talk together. Come into the Gardens.” “I can't,” she replied, hurriedly. “My train--” “You can miss your train. Where are you going?” “Lausanne,” she answered, weakly, with lowered eyes. “There are quantities of trains. Come.” He drew her arm gently. She obeyed, powerless to resist. He found a seat away from the promenade. An old peasant was dozing at one end, and a mongrel was stretched at his feet. They were practically alone. The old man in his time had seen many English and innumerable pairs of lovers. Neither interested him. He did not even deign to turn a lustreless eye in their direction. The boy with the dressing-bag had meekly followed them, and stood by, politely, cap in hand. Did madame want him to wait with the bag? “No,” replied Raine, pulling a franc from his pocket. “Take it to the _concierge_ at the Pension Boccard.” Katherine half rose, agitated. “No, no. I must go to Lausanne. You mustn't keep me.” But the boy had dashed off, clutching his franc-piece. Raine bent down till the ends of his moustache nearly brushed her veil. “I will keep you, Katherine, until you tell me you love me no longer.” “Don't torture me,” she said, piteously. “That is why I tried to avoid meeting--to spare us both. I knew your generosity.”