The handle of the door was turned, and some one entered. He looked round, and saw Felicia. Her black dress emphasized the fairylike delicacy of her face and hands; and something in her look—some sign of smothered misery or revolt—touched Tatham sharply. He hurried to her, biding her good morning, for she had not appeared at breakfast.
"And I wanted to see you before they all come. How is your mother?"
"Just the same." She allowed him but the slightest touch of her small fingers before she turned abruptly to the row of water-colours. "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.