While she was speaking a footman entered, bringing a telegram for Victoria.  It was from Tatham in London.

“Have just seen lawyers.  They are of opinion we could not fail in application for proper allowance and provision for both mother and daughter.  Hope you will persuade Mrs. Melrose to let us begin proceedings at once.  Very sorry for your telegram this morning, but only what I expected.”

Victoria read the message to her guest, and then did her best to urge boldness—­an immediate stroke.  But Netta shook her head despairingly.  She could not and would not have her father harassed.  Mr. Melrose would do anything—­bribe anybody—­to get his way.  They would have the police coming, and dragging her father to prison.  It was not to be thought of.

Victoria tried gently to investigate what skeleton might be lying in the Smeath closet, whereof Mr. Melrose possessed such very useful information.  But Netta held her tongue.  “Papa had been very unfortunate, and the Government would like to put him in prison if they could.  Edmund had been always so cruel to him.”  Beyond this Victoria could not get.

But the determination of the frail, faded woman was unshakable, although she glanced nervously at her daughter from time to time, as if much more in dread of her opinion than of Victoria’s.

Felicia, who had listened in silence to the conversation between her mother and Victoria, turned round from the window in which she was staring, as soon as Lady Tatham seemed to be finally worsted.

“Mother, you promised to stay here till Christmas!”

The voice was imperious.  Felicia’s manner to her mother indeed was often of an unfilial sharpness, and Victoria was already meditating some gentle discipline on the point.

“Oh, no, Felicia!” said Netta, helplessly, “not till Christmas.”  Then, remembering herself, she turned toward her hostess:  “It’s so kind of you, I’m sure.”

“Yes, till Christmas!” repeated Felicia.  “You know grandpapa’s no worse.  You know,” the girl flushed suddenly a bright crimson, “Lord Tatham sent him money—­and he’s quite comfortable. I am not going home just yet!  I am not going back to Italy—­till—­I have seen my father!”

She faced round upon Victoria and her mother, her hands on her hips, her breath fluttering.

“Felicia!” cried her mother, “you can’t.  I tell you—­you can’t!  I should never allow it!”

“Yes, you would, mother!  What are you afraid of?  He can’t kill me.  It’s ridiculous.  I must see my father.  I will!  He is getting old—­he may die.  I will see him before I leave England.  I don’t care whether he gives us the money or not!”

Victoria’s bright eyes showed her sympathy; though she did not interfere.  But Netta shrank into herself.

“You are always such a wilful child, Felicia!  You mustn’t do anything without my leave.  You’ll kill me if you do.”

And ashen-pale, she got up and left the room.  Victoria glanced at Felicia.