There was a few moments' silence. Katherine went on with her dressing. The words had relieved her heart, yet she felt ashamed at having spoken so bitterly before the young girl. Maxime debetur—. She thought of the maxim and bit her lip. But was she not young too? Were they so far apart in age that they could not meet on common grounds? She looked in the glass. Her charm had not yet gone. Yet she wished she had not spoken.
Felicia finished arranging the flowers, and disposed the four little vases about the room. Then she went up to Katherine and put her arm round her waist.
“I am sorry.”
It was all the girl could say, but it made Katherine turn and kiss her cheek.
“I expect Mr. Chetwynd is going to be very nice if he is anything like his father,” she said in her natural tones. “Forgive me for having been disagreeable. I woke up like it. Sometimes this pension gets on one's nerves.”
“It is frightfully dull,” assented Felicia. “But you are the busiest of anybody. You are always working or reading or going out to nurse poor sick people. I wish I did anything half as useful.”
“Well, you have made me more cheerful than I was, if that is anything,” replied Katherine.
A little later the old man announced to her the speedy arrival of his son Raine. Katherine listened, made a few polite inquiries, learned the functions of a college tutor, and the difference between a lecturer and a professor.
“He is a great big fellow,” said the old man. “He would make about ten of me. So don't expect to see a thin, doubled up, elderly young man in spectacles!”
“Is your son married?” asked Frâulein Klinkhardt, who sat next to Felicia.