Tatham laughed.
"You'll have to go back and behave nicely, Felicia. Haven't you any thanks for Faversham?"
"I never asked him to do it! How can I look after all that! It'll kill me. I want to sing! I want to go on the stage!"
He sat down beside her. Her dark head covered with its silky curls, her very black eyes and arched brows in her small pink face, the pointed chin, and tiny mouth, made a very winning figure of her, as she sat there, under a garden vase, and an overhanging yew. And that, although the shawl was huddled round her shoulders, and the eyes were red with tears.
"You will be able to do anything you like, Felicia. You will be terribly rich."
She gazed at him, the storm in her breast subsiding a little.
"How rich?" she asked him, pouting.
He tried to give her some idea. She sighed. "It's dreadful! What shall I do with it all!"
Then as her eyes still searched him, he saw them change—first to soft—then wild. Her colour flamed. She moved farther from him, and tried to put on a businesslike air.
"I want to ask a question."