He turned to go. The two younger people's eyes met, both touched by the same thing--the pathos of old age that sounded in the old man's words.
“How you must love him!” said Felicia, in a low voice.
“I do,” replied Raine, earnestly; “and it makes me happy to see that he has not been unloved during my absence. I feel more about what you have done for him than I can say.”
He smiled, involuntarily put out his hand, and pressed hers that she gave him. Then they parted, he to follow his father, she to go to her room serener and happier than she had been for many days, and to weave a wondrous web out of a few gracious words, a smile, and a pressure of the hand. If it were possible--if it were only possible! There would be no shame then--or only just that of it to raise joy with a leaven of tremulousness.
Meanwhile Raine sat in his father's room, and continued the interrupted gossip. But towards three o'clock the old man's eyes grew heavy, as he leaned his head back in the armchair. He struggled to keep them open for Raine's sake, but at last the latter rose with a smile.
“Yes,” murmured the old man, apologetically. “It's a new habit I have contracted--I must break myself of it gradually. I suppose I am getting old, Raine. You won't think it unkind of me will you? Just forty winks, Raine.”
“Have your nap out comfortably,” said the young man.
He fetched a footstool, arranged a cushion with singular tenderness behind the old man, and left him to his sleep. Then he went out for a stroll through the town.
It was a hot, sunny day. At the end of the street, the gate of the Jardin Anglais stood invitingly open. Raine entered, and came upon the enclosed portion of the Quai that forms the promenade, pleasant with its line of shady seats under the trees on one side, and the far-stretching lake on the other. He paused for awhile, and leant over the balustrade to light a cigarette and to admire the view--the cloudless sky, the deep blue water flecked with white sails, the imposing mass of the hotels on the Quai du Mont Blanc, the busy life on the bridge, beneath which the Rhone flows out of the lake. He drew in a long breath. Somehow it was more exhilarating than his college gardens. The place was not crowded, as the tourist season had not yet set in. But the usual number of nurses and children scattered themselves promiscuously along the path, and filled the air with shrill voices. Raine, continuing his stroll, had not gone many steps when he perceived, far ahead, a lady start from her seat and run to pick up a child that had fallen down. On advancing farther, he saw that it was Mrs. Stapleton, who had got the child on her knees and was tenderly wiping the little gravel-scratched hands, while the nurse, who had come up, stood by phlegmatic.