“It is so strange here,” she said, piteously, “and I feel so lost, without my friends and occupations, and—and—”
“Well? Tell me. Perhaps I may be able to help you.”
The girl turned away her head.
“Other things. Sometimes I feel frightened. To-night—that newspaper—what Mme. Popea was saying—it seemed to scorch me.”
Mrs. Stapleton registered a mental resolution to talk pointedly to Mme. Popea on the morrow. If English girls should have dumb pianos, it was only fair that Roumanian widows should have invisible indecent pictures.
She smoothed the back of Felicia's hot hands. Her own were cool and soft, and their touch was very grateful to Felicia.
“My poor child,” she said, “my poor child.”
She herself had suffered. She knew from sad tasting the bitterness of many fruits that grow in the garden of life. Like many women, she judged the flavour of another's future experiences by the aftertaste of her own past. There were many, many Dead Sea apples that a woman had to eat before the grave closed over her. The sight of the young soul shrinking at the foretaste filled her with a sense of infinite pathos.
“I wonder if you would let me call you by your name sometimes when we are alone,” she said, gently.
The girl flashed a grateful glance.