o fishing," I
continued. "There is a small yacht there and a couple of
sailing-boats."

She listened as though afraid of losing a single word.

"Tell me," I asked, "have you been lonely all your life, child?"

"All my life," she answered, and somehow or other her voice seemed to
me full of tears, so that I was almost surprised to find her eyes
dry. "Yes, I have always been lonely!" she murmured. "My uncle has
been kind to me, but he has always some great scheme on hand, and
Madame Muller--she would be kind if she knew how, I think, but she is
as though she were made of wood. She has no sympathy, she does not
understand."

"I wonder," I said reflectively, "what made your uncle bring you
here."

"It was a promise," she said hurriedly,--"a promise of long ago. You
yourself must know that. Your letter from your brother in South
America said, 'Mr. Delora and his niece.'"

"It is true," I admitted. "But why he should want to bring you and
then neglect you like this--But I forgot," I interrupted. "We must not
talk so. Tell me, you have been often to the theatre in Paris?"

"Very seldom," she answered, "and I love it so much. Madame Muller and
I go sometimes, but where we live is some distance from Paris, and it
is difficult to get home afterwards, especially for us two alone. My
uncle takes us sometimes, but he is generally so occupied."

"He is often in Paris, then?" I asked.

She started a little.

"Yes!" she said hurriedly. "He is often there, of course. But please
do not forget,--to-night we do not talk about my uncle. We talk about
ourselves. May I ask you something?"

"Certainly!" I answered.

"If my uncle says 'No!'--that I may not come--do you go away
altogether, then, to-morrow?"

"No," I answered, "I do not! I shall not leave you alone here. So long
as you stay, I shall remain in London."

She drew a little breath, and with a quick, impetuous movement her
hand stole across the table and pressed mine.

"It is so good of you!" she murmured.

"I am afraid that it is selfishness, Felicia," I answered. "I should
not care to go away and leave you here. I am beginning to find," I
added, "that the pleasures in life which do not include you count for
very little."

"You will turn my head," she declared, with a delightful little laugh.

"It is the truth," I assured her.

"I am quite sure now," she murmured, "that my great holiday has
commenced!"

CHAPTER XXIV

A TANTALIZING GLIMPSE

Feli