"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 prepare her
mind for alternatives. It might have been wiser. But Faversham's summons
had been sudden; and his own expectations were so vague!
However, there was no time now. Lydia arrived, and she and Tatham
withdrew into the inner room for a few minutes, deep in consultation.
Felicia watched them with furious eyes. And when they came out again, a
soft flush on Lydia's cheeks, it was all that Felicia could do to prevent
herself from rushing upstairs again, leaving them to have their horrid
meeting to themselves.
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