He attempted a laugh, which ended in a sound of pain. Then he lifted her hand again, kissed it, and was gone; running—head down—through the dimness of the lane.
Meanwhile, wrapped in the warm furs of the motor, Felicia and Lady Tatham sped toward Duddon.
Felicia was impenetrably silent at first; and Victoria, who never found it easy to adapt herself to the young, made no effort to rouse her. Occasionally some passing light showed her the girl's pallid profile—slightly frowning brow, and pinched lips—against the dark lining of the car. And once or twice as she saw her thus, she was startled by the likeness to Melrose.
When they were halfway home, a thin, high voice struck into the silence, deliberately clear:
"Who is the Signorina Penfold?"
"Her mother is a widow. They have lived here about two years."
"She is not pretty. She is too pale. I do not like that hair," said
Felicia, viciously.
Victoria could not help an unseen smile.
"Everybody here thinks her pretty. She is very clever, and a beautiful artist," she said, with slight severity.
The gesture beside her was scarcely discernible. But Victoria thought it was a toss of the head.