“Ach so!” said Frau Schultz as soon as they were out of earshot, “she has begun already. It is not decent. In a little while he will become quite entangled.”

Felicia looked away and did not speak. The other went on,—

“She might have waited a fortnight, a week, and done it gradually. But the very first day—”

“Please don’t let us discuss it,” said Felicia wearily.

“But I will discuss it; I am a virtuous woman, and I don’t like to see such things. He is too good to fall a victim. I shall-speak to the professor.”

“Do you think a gentleman like the professor would listen to you, Frau Schultz?” asked Felicia, scarcely veiling her disgust.

This was a new idea to Frau Schultz. She turned it over with some curiosity, and metaphorically sniffed at it. Then she left it alone, to Felicia’s relief, and the rest of their conversation passed without allusion to the subject.

But her comments upon the meeting in the Jardin Anglais made an unpleasant impression upon the girl, revived the memory of the previous indictment of Katherine which she had rebutted with such indignation. But now, she could not regard Katherine with the same feelings of loyalty. On the contrary, the growing distrust and antagonism seemed to have come to a head. The instinct of combat was aroused in her for the first time, and she began to dislike Katherine with a younger woman’s strong, active dislike.

Unconsciously to herself, the atmosphere of the pension had tainted the purity of her judgment. She had learned that little knowledge of things evil which is so dangerous. Katherine was not to her merely a rival, loving Raine Chetwynd with a fair, pure love like her own, but a scheming woman, one of those to whom love is a pastime, occupation, vanity—she knew not what—but still a thing unhonoured and conferring no honour on the man. And, as the days went on, this attitude became more definite, gaining stability in measure as the woman within her took the place of the child. The thought, too, took shape: why should she not use maidenly means to keep him by her side, when Katherine used unworthy ones? And with the thought her ashamed ness wore off, and she began to battle bravely for her love.

Katherine could not help noticing these signs of active rivalry. At first she was hurt. She would have dearly liked to retain Felicia’s friendship. But what could she do?

She was in her room one morning when the sound of a carriage drawing up in the street below, struck upon her ear. Out of idle curiosity she stepped upon the little balcony and looked down. Old Mr. Chetwynd, Raine and Felicia were going out for a drive. She watched them settle themselves laughingly in their places, and smiled not unkindly at Felicia’s young radiant face. But as they drove off, Felicia glanced up, caught sight of her, and the expression changed. Its triumph smote Katherine with a sense of pain. She retired from the balcony wearily. A vague fancy came to her to go away from Geneva, to leave the field open for Felicia. She dallied with it for a moment. And then the fierce reaction set in.

No. A thousand times no. Why should she be quixotic? Whoever in the world had acted quixotically towards her? Her life had been wrecked—up to now, without one gleam of light in any far-off haven. She had been tossed about by the waves, an idle derelict. Only lately had hope come. It was a wild, despairing hope, at the best—but it had kept her alive for the past six months Why should she give way to this young girl—untouched, untroubled save by this one first girlish fancy? All the world was before her, waiting with its tributes to throw at the feet of her youth and fairness and charm. In a few months she would go out into it again, leave the Pension Boccard and its narrowing life for ever. In a year it would be but a memory, Raine Chetwynd but a blushing episode. Many men would love her. She would have her pick of the noblest. Why, should she herself then yield her single frail hope to her who had so many fair ones?

She clung with passionate insistence to this self-justification. Since her lot of loneliness had fallen upon her, she had accepted it implicitly, never sought to form ties of even the most delicate and ephemeral nature. She had contemplated the grey, loveless, lonely stretch of future years as the logical consequence of the past, and sometimes its stern inevitableness crushed her. Life for life, which had the greater need of joy—her own or that of the young girl? The law of eternal justice seemed to ring answer in her heart—as it has rung in the heart of every daughter of Hagar since the world began.

Late that evening she was standing on the balcony outside the salon. They had passed a merry evening. A concert-singer from London, who had arrived the day before, had good-naturedly sung for them. Old Mr. Chetwynd had been witty and charming. Commandant Pornichon had told, with Gascon verve, stories of camp and war. Raine had talked and laughed in his wholehearted way. Everyone had been gay, good-tempered. Felicia had been in buoyant mood, adding her fresh note to the talk; had even addressed to her a few laughing words. One by one all had left the salon. The last had been Mme. Popea, who had remained for a quiet chatter with her about the events of the evening. She was alone now, in the moonlight, feeling less at war with herself than during the day. Laughter and song are good for the heart. She leant her cheek on her elbow and mused. Perhaps she was a wicked woman to try to come between a girl and her happiness. After all, would not the sacrifice of self be a noble thing?

But suddenly she heard the salon door open and an entering footstep that caused her heart to leap within her. With an incontrollable impulse she moved and showed herself at the window.

“How delightful to find you!” exclaimed Raine. “I came almost on a forlorn hope.”

“I stayed to sentimentalize a little in the moonlight,” said Katherine. “I thought you had gone to the café.”

“No; I have been sitting with my father,” he said, pulling a chair on to the balcony and motioning her to it. “And then, when I left him, I thought it would be pleasant to talk to you—so I came. I have not had a word with you all day.”

“I have missed our argument too,” admitted Katherine. “So you had a pleasant expedition?”

“Very,” said Raine. “But I wished you had been there.”

“You had your father and Felicia.”

“That was the worst of it,” he said laughingly. “They are so much in love with one another, that I was the third that makes company nought.”

He talked about the drive to Vevey, the habits and customs of the Swiss, digressed into comparisons between the peasant classes of various countries. Katherine, who had wandered over most of the beaten track in Europe, supplied his arguments with illustrations. She loved to hear him talk. His knowledge was wide and accurate, his criticisms vigorous. The strength of his intellectual fibre alone differentiated him, in her eyes, from ordinary men. His vision was so clear, his touch upon all subjects so firm, and yet, at need, so delicate; she felt herself so infinitely little of mind compared with him. They talked on till past midnight; but long ere that the conversation had drifted around things intimately subjective.

As they parted for the night at the end of Katherine’s corridor, she could not help saying to him somewhat humbly,—

“Thank you for the talks. You do not know how I value them. They lift me into a different atmosphere.”

Raine looked at her a little wonderingly. Her point of view had never occurred to him. Thoroughly honest and free from vanity of every kind, he could not even now quite comprehend it.

“It is you who raise me,” he replied. “To talk with you is an education in all fine and delicate things. How many women do you think there are like you?”

His words rang soothingly in her ear until she slept. In the morning she seemed to wake to a newer conception of life.

And as the days went by, and their talks alone together on the balcony, in the Jardin Anglais, and where not, deepened in intimacy, and the nature of the man she loved unfolded itself gradually like a book before her perceptive feminine vision, this conception broadened into bolder, clearer definition. Hitherto she had been fiercely maintaining her inalienable right to whatever chance of happiness offered itself in her path. Now she felt humbled, unworthy, a lesser thing than he, and her abasement brought her a sweet, pure happiness. At first she had loved him, she scarce knew why, because he was he, because her heart had leapt towards him. But now the self-chastening brought into being a higher love, tender and worshipping, such as she had dreamed over in a lonely woman’s wistful reveries. She lost the sense of rivalry with Felicia, strove in unobtrusive ways to win back her friendship. But Felicia, sweet and effusive to others, to Katherine remained unapproachable.

At last a great womanly pity arose in Katherine’s heart. The victory that she was ever becoming more conscious of gaining awakened all her generous impulses and tendernesses. Her love for Raine had grown too beautiful a thing to allow of unworthy thrills of triumph.

For the rest, it was a happy sunlit time. The past faded into dimness. She lived from day to day blinded to all but the glowing radiance of her love.

Raine met her one day going with a basket on her arm up the streets of the old town by the cathedral. He had fallen into the habit of joining her with involuntary unceremoniousness when she was alone, and it did not occur to her as anything but natural that he should join her now and walk by her side. At the door of the basement where Jean-Marie and his wife dwelt, she paused.

“This is the end of my journey. My old people live here.”

“I am quite envious of them,” said Raine.

He had scarcely spoken, when the old woman hobbled across the road from one of the opposite houses, and came up to Katherine with smiling welcome in the wrinkles of her old, lined face.

She had not expected madame so soon after her last visit. It was Jean-Marie who was going to be happy. Would Madame enter? And Monsieur? Was he the brother of Madame?

Katherine explained, with a bright flush on either cheek and a quick little glance of embarrassment at Raine, who laughed and added his word of explanation. He was a great friend of Madame’s. She had often spoken to him of Jean-Marie.

The old woman looked at him, the eternal feminine in her not dulled by years, and liked his smiling face.

“If I could dare to ask Monsieur if he would condescend to enter with Madame—?”

He sought a permissive glance from Katherine, and accepted the invitation.

“I did not mean—” began Katherine in a low voice as they were following the old woman down the dark stairs.

“It will delight me,” replied Raine. “Besides, I shall envy them no longer.”

After a few moments her embarrassment wore off, as she saw the old paralytic’s first Swiss shyness melt away under Raine’s charm. It was Raine’s way, as the old professor had said once to Felicia, to get behind externals and to set himself in sympathy with all whom he met. And Katherine, though she had not heard this formulated, felt the truth unconsciously. He talked as if he had known Jean-Marie from infancy. To listen to him one would have thought it was the simplest thing in the world to entertain an ignorant old Swiss peasant. Katherine had never loved him so much as she did that hour.

She was full of the sense of it when they were in the street again—of his tenderness, simplicity, human kindness.

“How they adore you!” he said suddenly.

The words and tone startled her. The aspect she herself had presented was the last thing in her thoughts. The tribute, coming from him in the midst of her silent adoration of him himself, brought swiftly into play a range of complex feelings and the tears to her eyes. He could not help noticing their moisture.

“What a tender heart you have!” he said in his kind way, falling into inevitable error.

“It is silly of me,” she replied with a bright smile.

She could not undeceive him. Often a woman by reason of her sex has to receive what she knows is not her due. But she compensates the eternal justice of things by giving up more of her truest self to the man. A few moments later, however, on their homeward walk, she tried to be conscientious.

“I cannot bear you to praise me—as you do sometimes.”

“Why?”

A man, even the most sympathetic, is seldom satisfied unless he has reasons for everything. Katherine, in spite of her seriousness, smiled at the masculine directness. She replied somewhat earnestly,—

“Because I do not deserve it in the first place, and in the second, it means so much more, coming from you.”

“I said that those old folks adore you, and that you are tender-hearted,” he answered conclusively; “and both facts are true, and it would be a bad day for anyone but yourself who gainsaid them.”