"If you don't, I won't take a farthing! What good would it be to me!"
She came closer, and put her little hands on his shoulders as he sat—the centre of one of those sudden tumults of sense and spirit that sweep a strong man from his feet.
"Oh, won't you take care of me? I love you so!"
It was a cry of Nature. Tatham gave a great gulp, put out his arms, and caught her. There she was on the bench beside him, laughing and sobbing, gathered against his heart.
The cheerful December day shone upon them: a robin sang in the yew tree overhead….
Meanwhile the library was still full. Nobody had yet left it; and instinctively everybody was watching the French window.
Two figures appeared there, Felicia in front. She came in, her eyes cast down, a bright spot on either cheek. And while every one in the room held their breath she crossed the floor and paused in front of Faversham.
"Mr. Faversham, I ask your pardon, that I was so rude. I—" A sob rose in her throat, and she stopped a moment to control it. "Till the other day—I was just a poor girl—who never had a lira to spend. All that we ate—my mother and I—we had to work for. And now—you have made me rich. It's—it's very wonderful. I only wish"—the sob rose again—"just that last time—my father had been kind to me. I thank you with all my heart. But I can't take it all, you know—I can't!"
She looked at him appealing—almost threatening. Faversham smiled at her.
"That doesn't lie with you! One of your trustees has already signed the deed—here comes the other." He pointed to Tatham.