The eyes of the old connoisseur went
from the living face to the drawing, comparing them.
At last Felicia paused. Her smiles died away. She looked at him
wistfully.
"Mother's awfully sorry she--she offended you so. Won't you forgive her
now--and poor Babbo--about the little statue?"
She hardly dared breathe the last words, as she timidly dropped her eyes.
There were tears in her voice, and yet she was not very far from
hysterical laughter. The whole scene was so fantastic--ridiculous! The
room with its lumber; its confusion of glittering things; this old man
frowning at her--for no reason! For after all--what had she done? Even
the _contadini_--they were rough often--they couldn't read or write--but
they loved their grandchildren.
As he caught her reference to the bronze Hermes, Melrose's face changed.
He rose, stretching out a hand toward a bell on the table.
"You must go!" he said, sharply. "You ought never to have come. You'll
get nothing by it. Tell your mother so. This is the second attack she has
made on me--through her tools. If she attempts another, she may take the
consequences!"
Felicia too stood up. A rush of anger and despair choked her.
"And you won't--you won't even say a kind word to me!" she said, panting.
"You won't kiss me?"
For answer, he seized her by the hands, and drew her toward the light.
There, for a few intolerable seconds he looked closely, with a kind of
savage curiosity, into her face, studying her features, her hair, her
light form.
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