The voice was imperious. Felicia's manner to her mother indeed was often of an unfilial sharpness, and Victoria was already meditating some gentle discipline on the point.
"Oh, no, Felicia!" said Netta, helplessly, "not till Christmas." Then, remembering herself, she turned toward her hostess: "It's so kind of you, I'm sure."
"Yes, till Christmas!" repeated Felicia. "You know grandpapa's no worse. You know," the girl flushed suddenly a bright crimson, "Lord Tatham sent him money—and he's quite comfortable. I am not going home just yet! I am not going back to Italy—till—I have seen my father!"
She faced round upon Victoria and her mother, her hands on her hips, her breath fluttering.
"Felicia!" cried her mother, "you can't. I tell you—you can't! I should never allow it!"
"Yes, you would, mother! What are you afraid of? He can't kill me. It's ridiculous. I must see my father. I will! He is getting old—he may die. I will see him before I leave England. I don't care whether he gives us the money or not!"
Victoria's bright eyes showed her sympathy; though she did not interfere.
But Netta shrank into herself.
"You are always such a wilful child, Felicia! You mustn't do anything without my leave. You'll kill me if you do."
And ashen-pale, she got up and left the room. Victoria glanced at
Felicia.
"Don't do anything against your mother's will," she said gently. "You are too young to decide these things for yourself. But, if you can, persuade her to follow Lord Tatham's advice. He is most anxious to help you in the best way. And he does not believe that Mr. Melrose could hurt your grandfather."