“But I did not say that you might call me Felicia!” she interrupted.

“Then do say so,” I begged.

“For this evening, then,” she assented.

“For this evening, then, Felicia,” I continued.  “I do not wish to worry you by talking about certain things, but do you not think yourself that your uncle is very inconsiderate to leave you here alone on your first visit to London,—­not to come near the place, or provide you with any means of amusement?  Why should he hesitate to let you come to us?”

“We will not talk of it,” she begged, a little nervously.  “I must do as he wishes.  We will hope that he says yes, will we not?”

“He must say yes!” I declared.  “If he doesn’t I’ll find out where he is, somehow, and go and talk to him!”

She shook her head.

“He is very much engaged,” she said.  “He would not like you to find him out, nor would he have any time to talk to you.”

“Selling his coffee?” I could not help saying.

“To-night, Capitaine Rotherby,” she answered softly, “we do not talk of those things.  Tell me what else we shall do down at your brother’s house?”

“We shall go for long walks,” I told her.  “There are beautiful gardens there—­a rose garden more than a hundred years old, and at the end of it a footpath which leads through a pine plantation and then down to the sea marshes.  We can sit and watch the sea and talk, and when you find it dull we will fill the house with young people, and play games and dance—­dance by moonlight, if you like.  Or we can go fishing,” I continued.  “There is a small yacht there and a couple of sailing-boats.”

She listened as though afraid of losing a single word.

“Tell me,” I asked, “have you been lonely all your life, child?”

“All my life,” she answered, and somehow or other her voice seemed to me full of tears, so that I was almost surprised to find her eyes dry.  “Yes, I have always been lonely!” she murmured.  “My uncle has been kind to me, but he has always some great scheme on hand, and Madame Muller—­she would be kind if she knew how, I think, but she is as though she were made of wood.  She has no sympathy, she does not understand.”

“I wonder,” I said reflectively, “what made your uncle bring you here.”

“It was a promise,” she said hurriedly,—­“a promise of long ago.  You yourself must know that.  Your letter from your brother in South America said, ‘Mr. Delora and his niece.’”

“It is true,” I admitted.  “But why he should want to bring you and then neglect you like this—­But I forgot,” I interrupted.  “We must not talk so.  Tell me, you have been often to the theatre in Paris?”

“Very seldom,” she answered, “and I love it so much.  Madame Muller and I go sometimes, but where we live is some distance from Paris, and it is difficult to get home afterwards, especially for us two alone.  My uncle takes us sometimes, but he is generally so occupied.”