“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.”