“Capitaine Rotherby,” she said, “you must not say such things—­so suddenly!”

“Last time we met,” I reminded her, “you called me Austen.”

“Austen, then, if I must,” she said.  “You know very well that you should not be here.  You are breaking a promise.  It is very, very nice to see you,” she continued.  “Indeed, I do feel that.  But I am afraid!”

“I have sufficient reasons for breaking my promise, dear,” I said, taking her hand in mine.  “I will explain them to you by and by.  In the meantime, please answer my question.”

“You are serious, then?” she asked, looking at me with wide-open eyes, and lips which quivered a little—­whether with laughter or emotion I could not tell.

“I am serious,” I answered.  “You want taking care of, Felicia, and I am quite sure that I should be the best person in the world to do it.”

Her eyes fell before mine.  She seemed to be studying the point of her long patent shoe.  As usual she was dressed delightfully, in a light fawn-colored tailor-made gown and a large black hat.  Nevertheless she seemed to me to be thinner and frailer than when I had first seen her—­too girlish, almost, for her fashionable clothes.

“Do you think that you would take care of me?” she said softly.  “I am afraid I am a very ignorant little person.  I do not know much about England or English ways, and every one says that things are so different here.”

“There is one thing,” I declared, “which is the same all the world over, and that is that when two people care for one another, the world becomes not such a very difficult place to live in, Felicia.  I wonder if you could not try and care a little for me?”

“I do,” she murmured, without looking up.

“Enough?” I asked.

She sighed.  Suddenly she raised her eyes, and I saw things there which amazed me.  They were no longer the eyes of a frightened child.  I was thrilled with the passion which seemed somehow or other to have been born in their deep blue depths.

“Dear Austen,” she said, “I think that I care quite enough.  But listen.  How can I say, ‘Yes,’ to you?  Always my uncle has been kind, in his way.  I know now that he is worried, harassed to death, afraid, even, of what may happen hour by hour.  I could not leave him.  He would think that I had lost faith, that I had gone over to his enemies.”

“Felicia dear,” I said, “I do not wish to be the enemy of any one who is your friend.  Indeed, your uncle and his doings mean so little to me.  If they are honest, I might be able to help him.  If he is engaged in transactions of which he is ashamed, then it is time that you were taken away.”

“I will never believe that,” she declared.

“Felicia,” I said, “I will tell you why I have broken my promise and come to London.  I believe I told you that I had a brother out in Brazil?”

“Yes!” she answered,—­“Dicky, you called him.”