A blaze of light and colour, a rush of heated air. Felicia was dazzled by the splendour of the great show within—the tapestries, the pictures, the gleaming reflections on lacquer and intarsia, on ebony or Sèvres. But the atmosphere was stifling. Melrose now could only live in the temperature of a hothouse.
Dixon threw open a door, and without a word beckoned to Felicia to enter. He hesitated a moment, evidently as to whether he should announce her; and then, stepping forward, he cleared his throat.
"Muster Melrose, theer's soom one as wants to speak to you!"
"What do you mean, you old fool!" said a deep, angry voice on the other side of a great lacquer screen; "didn't I tell you I wasn't to be disturbed?"
Felicia walked round the screen. Dixon, with an excited look at her, retired through the door which he closed behind him.
"Father!" said Felicia, in a low, trembling voice.
An old man who was writing at a large inlaid table, in the midst of a confusion of objects which the girl's eyes had no time to take in, turned sharply at the sound.
The two stared at each other. Melrose slowly revolved on his chair, pen in hand. Felicia stood, with eyes downcast, her cheeks burning, her hands lightly clasped.
Melrose spoke first.
"H'm—so they've sent you here?"