“Of course; but—”
“Well, she will insist upon it, Raine; she comes in for a couple of hours a day. It pleases her, really, and I can't help it.”
“What a dear little soul she must be,” said Raine.
“Ah! she is, my boy; every day she seems to wind a fresh thread round my heart. We shall have to take her back to Oxford with us, eh, Raine?”
He laughed softly, took up the manuscript and put it tenderly away again in the drawer, while Raine lit his pipe. The latter did not suspect the hint that his father had meant to convey, but he took advantage of the short pause that followed to change the conversation.
It was Mme. Boccard's arrangement that Raine should take Katherine's place next to his father, and thus have her as his neighbour. It would disappoint M. le Professeur if he were separated from his petite amie, Miss Graves, and she was sure that Mrs. Stapleton would not mind.
“Make any arrangement you please,” Katherine had replied, with some demureness.
Whereupon Mme. Boccard thanked her, and wished that everybody was as gentle and easy to deal with, and Katherine had smiled inwardly, at the same time despising herself a little for doing so, as is the way with women.
As for Felicia, the disposition of seats caused her painful embarrassment. She dared not look at Katherine, lest she should read the welcome in her eyes; she dared not look at Raine, lest the trouble in her own should betray her. She kept them downcast, listening to Raine's voice with a burning cheek and beating heart. Only when the meal was over, and the old man detained her in conversation by the window, and Raine came up to them, did she summon up courage to meet his glance fully.
“So the professor has caught you in his dusty web, Miss Graves,” he said, smiling. “You were very sweet to let yourself be caught.”