rself in him. She
realized through every fibre that he was indeed her father.

"You would have done better not to trouble me again!" said Melrose, with
slow emphasis. "Your mother seems to pay no attention whatever to what I
say. We shall see. So you want a _dot_? And, pray, what do you want a
_dot_ for? Who's going to marry you? Tatham?"

The tone was more mocking than fierce; but Felicia shrank under it.

"Oh, no, _no_! But I _might_ want to marry," she added piteously. "And in
Italy--one can't marry--without a _dot_!"

"Your mother should have thought of these things when she ran away."

Felicia was silent a moment. Then, without invitation, she seated herself
on the edge of a chair that stood near him.

"That was so long ago," she said timidly--yet confidingly. "And I was a
baby. Couldn't you--couldn't you forget it now?"

Melrose surveyed her.

"I suppose you like being at Duddon?" he asked her abruptly, without
answering her question.

She clasped her hands fervently.

"It's like heaven! They're so good to us."

"No doubt!"--the tone was sarcastic. "Well, let them provide for you. Who
gave you those clothes? Lady Tatham?"

She nodded. Her lip trembled. Her startled eyes looked at him piteously.

"You've been living at Lucca?"

"Near Lucca--on the mountains."

"H'm. Is that all true--about your grandfather?"

"That he's ill? Of course, it's true!" she said indignantly. "We don't
tell lies. He's had a stroke--he's dying. And we could hardly give him
any food he could eat. You see--"

She edged a little closer, and began a voluble, confidential account of
their life in the mountains. Her voice was thin and childish, but sweet;
and every now and then she gave a half-frightened, half-excited laugh.
Melrose watched her frowning; but he did not stop her. Her bright eyes
and brows, with their touches of velvet black, the quick movement of her
pink lips, the rose-leaf delicacy of her colour, seemed to hold him.
Among the pretty things with which the room was crowded she was the
prettiest; and he probably was conscious of it. Propped up against the
French bureau stood a Watteau drawing in red chalk--a _sanguine_--he had
bought in Paris on a recent visit. The eyes of the old connoisseur went
from the living face to the drawing, comparing them.

At last Felicia paused. Her smiles died away. She looked at him
wistfully.

"Mother's awfully sorry she--she offended you so. Won't you forgive her
now--and po