His thoughts strayed on to the coming hour and Felicia’s future.  It amused the young man’s mere love of “eventful living” to imagine her surprise, if what he shrewdly supposed was going to happen, did happen.  But no one could say—­little incalculable thing!—­how she would take it.

The handle of the door was turned, and some one entered.  He looked round, and saw Felicia.  Her black dress emphasized the fairylike delicacy of her face and hands; and something in her look—­some sign of smothered misery or revolt—­touched Tatham sharply.  He hurried to her, biding her good morning, for she had not appeared at breakfast.

“And I wanted to see you before they all come.  How is your mother?”

“Just the same.”  She allowed him but the slightest touch of her small fingers before she turned abruptly to the row of water-colours.  “Who painted those?”

“Miss Penfold.  Don’t you know what a charming artist she is?”

“They are not at all well done!” said Felicia.  “Amateurs have no business to paint.”

“She is not an amateur!” cried Tatham.  “She—­”

Then again he noticed that she was hollowed-eyed, and her lip was twitching.  Poor little girl!—­in her black dress—­soon to be motherless—­and with this critical moment in front of her!

He came nearer to her in the shy, courteous way that made a dissonance so attractive with his great height and strength.

“Dear Felicia!  I may, mayn’t I?  We’re cousins.  Don’t be nervous—­or afraid.  I think it’s all coming right.”

She looked at him angrily.

“I’m not nervous—­not the least bit!  I don’t care what happens.”

And holding her curly head absurdly high, she went back into the library, which Victoria, Undershaw, and Cyril Boden had just entered.  Tatham regretted that he had not made more time to talk with her; to prepare her mind for alternatives.  It might have been wiser.  But Faversham’s summons had been sudden; and his own expectations were so vague!

However, there was no time now.  Lydia arrived, and she and Tatham withdrew into the inner room for a few minutes, deep in consultation.  Felicia watched them with furious eyes.  And when they came out again, a soft flush on Lydia’s cheeks, it was all that Felicia could do to prevent herself from rushing upstairs again, leaving them to have their horrid meeting to themselves.

But flight was barred.  Faversham entered, accompanied by the senior solicitor to the Threlfall estate and by old Dixon, shaking with nervousness, in a black Sunday suit.  Chairs had been provided.  They took their seats.  Tatham cleared his own table.

“No need!” said the solicitor, a gentleman with a broad, benevolent face slightly girdled by whiskers.  “It’s very short!”

And smiling, he took out of his pocket a document consisting apparently of two sheets of square letter paper, and amid the sudden silence, he began to read.