He rested his head on his hand, dejectedly.
“I had set my heart upon it. That was why, the first day you came, I spoke of her coming back to Oxford with us. Poor little girl! Heaven knows what will happen to her, when I tell her.”
“Tell her! You mustn't do that, dad. She must learn it for herself. It will be best for her. I will be very careful—very careful—she will see—and her pride will come to her help. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go away—for an indefinite time. Rogers and three men are climbing in Switzerland. I shall pack up my things and go and join them to-morrow; I have a list of their dates.”
He searched for it among the papers in his pocket-book.
“Chamonix! Their being so close will be a good excuse. When I come back—it will only be for a short time—this break will make it easier to modify my attitude.”
“Let us think what would be best,” said the professor with an old man's greater slowness of decision.
“I have made up my mind,” said Raine. “I go to-morrow.”
Just then a rap was heard at the door, and a moment afterwards Felicia appeared, bringing her daily task of copy. She handed the professor the manuscript—and while he looked through it mechanically, she stood like a school-girl before her master, with clasped hands, waiting pleasurably for the little word of praise.
“There is going to be a specially gorgeous fête on the lake to-night, Mr. Chetwynd,” she said brightly, turning to Raine.
“Won't it be like the other one?”