From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. He knew. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. “What you have said is a ridiculous falsehood,” she declared scornfully. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere.
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