Felicia sketched the history of the case, touched on the abandoned trip to Lucerne, condoled with Raine on the disappointment at not meeting his friends at Chamonix. She talked bravely, all the pride of her young-womanhood up in arms to help her. Perhaps she could convince him that he had made a mistake. She devoted to the task all her energies. Her modesty and intuitive tact saved her from over-acting. Her concentration, however, prevented her from realizing the silent agitation of Katherine. She attributed it to embarrassment at meeting Raine after his absence, and felt a little thrill of gratified vanity at the inversion of parts. It used to be Katherine who was outwardly at perfect ease and self-contained, and herself who was embarrassed and tongue-tied.
It seemed a little victory in the handling of life.
Raine spoke brightly enough of his adventures at Chamonix, including Miss Bunter, who was sitting very subdued and wan next to Felicia, in the conversation, and drew from her an account of a far-off visit to the Mer de Glace. But he was feeling low at heart. If he addressed a chance remark to Katherine, she greeted it with a forced smile, which he felt like a stab. He could see from the very fear in her eyes that it was not merely sudden faintness. He noticed that on trying to lift her wine-glass, which he had accidentally refilled too full, her hand shook so much that she abandoned the attempt. He silently poured some wine into one that he had not used and exchanged glasses with her. She acknowledged the act with a bow of her head and drank the wine somewhat feverishly.
“My American friend seems to be enjoying himself,” said Raine to Felicia, as Hockmaster's somewhat sharply pitched voice was heard expounding his artlessly paradoxical philosophy of life to those around him.
Felicia leant forward, so as to catch a glimpse of him down the long table.
“You must introduce him,” she said.
“With pleasure. He will amuse you. I think if Bret Harte had known him, he would not have asked whether the Caucasian was played out. He is as childlike and bland as Ah Sin himself. But he is a capital fellow.”
They paused for a moment to catch what he was saying. Raine saw him leaning across the table and addressing a new arrival, evidently a compatriot.
“No. I am not a married man. But I am fond of ladies' society. To get along without ladies is like washing your hands without soap.”
There was laughter at the remark, which was increased by his attempts to convey his meaning in French to Mme. Boccard.