“I hope I haven't driven Mme. Popea away with my strumming,” she said, guiltily.
“Oh, no, dear,” replied Mrs. Stapleton, with cheerful assurance. “She is a lazy little body that always goes to bed early.”
Felicia rose, took up Le Journal Amusant, which Mme. Popea had left behind, and sitting down, began to look through it. A few seconds later, however, she crumpled it fiercely, and threw it on the ground with a cry of disgust.
“How can ladies read such things?” she exclaimed.
She had never seen such a picture before, never conceived that the like could even have been visualized by the imagination. Its cynical immodesty, its obscene suggestion, gave her a sickening sensation of loathing.
Mrs. Stapleton picked up the offending journal, and skimmed over its pages with calm eyes and a contemptuous curl of the lip.
“Oh, how can you?” cried Felicia, writhing.
The other smiled, and, opening the door of the great porcelain stove, thrust the paper in amongst the glowing coals, and closed the door again. Then she came quickly up to the couch where Felicia was, and sitting down by her side, took her hand.
“My poor child,” she said, “I hope you are not too unhappy here.”
The elder woman's voice was so soft, her manner was so gentle and feminine, that the girl's heart, that had been longing for six weeks, with a greater hunger day after day, for womanly sympathy, leapt towards her, and her eyes filled with tears.