To her own mother, so Lady Tatham reported, she was as
good--as gentle even--as her temperament allowed. But there was a deep
discrepancy between them.

As to Mrs. Melrose, whose life, according to the doctor, was only a
matter of weeks, possibly months, Victoria believed that the shock of her
old father's death had affected her much more acutely than the murder of
her husband. She fretted perpetually that she had left her father to
strangers, and that she could not help to lay him in his grave. Felicia
too had cried a little, but had soon consoled herself with the sensible
reflection--so it seemed to Tatham--that at least her poor old Babbo was
now out of his troubles.

His thoughts strayed on to the coming hour and Felicia's future. It
amused the young man's mere love of "eventful living" to imagine her
surprise, if what he shrewdly supposed was going to happen, did happen.
But no one could say--little incalculable thing!--how she would take it.

The handle of the door was turned, and some one entered. He looked round,
and saw Felicia. Her black dress emphasized the fairylike delicacy of her
face and hands; and something in her look--some sign of smothered misery
or revolt--touched Tatham sharply. He hurried to her, biding her good
morning, for she had not appeared at breakfast.

"And I wanted to see you before they all come. How is your mother?"

"Just the same." She allowed him but the slightest touch of her small
fingers before she turned abruptly to the row of water-colours. "Who
painted those?"

"Miss Penfold. Don't you know what a charming artist she is?"

"They are not at all well done!" said Felicia. "Amateurs have no business
to paint."

"She is not an amateur!" cried Tatham. "She--"

Then again he noticed that she was hollowed-eyed, and her lip
was twitching. Poor little girl!--in her black dress--soon to be
motherless--and with this critical moment in front of her!

He came nearer to her in the shy, courteous way that made a dissonance so
attractive with his great height and strength.

"Dear Felicia! I may, mayn't I? We're cousins. Don't be nervous--or
afraid. I think it's all coming right."

She looked at him angrily.

"I'm not nervous--not the least bit! I don't care what happens."

And holding her curly head absurdly high, she went back into the library,
which Victoria, Undershaw, and Cyril Boden had just entered. Tatham
regretted that he had not made more time to talk with her; to prepar