"Oh, do let me go to bed," she said in Italian.
Netta put her arm round her, supporting her. Presently they passed a portrait on the wall, an enlarged photograph of a boy in cricketing dress.
Underneath it was written:
"Harry. Eton Eleven. July 189—-."
Felicia for the first time showed a gleam of interest. She stopped to look at the picture.
"Who is it?"
"It must be her son, Lord Tatham."
The girl's sunken eyes seemed to drink in the pleasant image of the
English boy.
"Shall we see him?"
"Of course. To-morrow. Now come to bed!"