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.”
“Oh! I walked in of my own accord, I assure you,” replied Felicia, “and you have no idea what trouble I had. He wants to dismiss me at the present moment. Do plead for me, Mr. Chetwynd. Of course, I know I should be in the way in the professor's room now--oh! yes, I should, that is quite settled--but I want him to give me something to do by myself.”
“I will try my best for you, Miss Graves,” said Raine; “but you don't know what an unnatural, hard-hearted--”
“Well, my dear,” said the old man, “you must have your way. It was only for your own sake I suggested it. I am always so afraid of making you weary--and it is very, very dry stuff--but your help is invaluable, my dear. It will be the same as usual, then. Only I think I shall cut down the time to half, as I, too, am going to be lazy now.”
“Now you will see what real laziness is, Miss Graves,” said Raine. “Do you know my father's idea of leisure?--what remains of a day after nine hours' work. Seven he calls laziness; six is abject sloth.”
“Ah! not now, Raine,” said the old man, “not now.”