“I have made a mess of it from beginning to end,” he murmured wearily. “And yet I don't think it can be dotage yet awhile. Let me reason it all out.”
His eyes closed. He had put the argument into a syllogism in Barbara, when his brain refused to act, and he fell asleep.
CHAPTER XII.—ELECTRICITY IN THE AIR.
The waiter who brought Felicia's telegram into the smoking-room found Raine walking up and down, pipe in mouth, in a state of caged irritation. A fine, penetrating rain was falling outside, the wet dribbled down the windows, the air was impregnated with mist, and great rolls of fog hid the mountains. The guides had prophesied a clearing up of the weather at midday, but it was half-past eleven, and the prospect was growing drearier every minute. Hockmaster was yawning over a cigar and a battered copy of the Louisville Guardian which some compatriot had bequeathed to the hotel.
Raine seized the telegram eagerly, read it, crumpled it into his pocket in some excitement, and turned to the waiter.
“There is a diligence to Cluses—when does it start?”
“At 12.15, Monsieur.”
“And the train to Geneva?”