At the next false note, Mme. Popea rose softly, and went to Mrs. Stapleton.
“I am going to bed,” she whispered. “These English girls are charming; but they should have dumb pianos made for them, that would speak only to their own souls.”
When Felicia heard the click of the closing door, she started round on the music-stool.
“I hope I haven't driven Mme. Popea away with my strumming,” she said, guiltily.
“Oh, no, dear,” replied Mrs. Stapleton, with cheerful assurance. “She is a lazy little body that always goes to bed early.”
Felicia rose, took up _Le Journal Amusant_, which Mme. Popea had left behind, and sitting down, began to look through it. A few seconds later, however, she crumpled it fiercely, and threw it on the ground with a cry of disgust.
“How can ladies read such things?” she exclaimed.
She had never seen such a picture before, never conceived that the like could even have been visualized by the imagination. Its cynical immodesty, its obscene suggestion, gave her a sickening sensation of loathing.
Mrs. Stapleton picked up the offending journal, and skimmed over its pages with calm eyes and a contemptuous curl of the lip.
“Oh, how can you?” cried Felicia, writhing.
The other smiled, and, opening the door of the great porcelain stove, thrust the paper in amongst the glowing coals, and closed the door again. Then she came quickly up to the couch where Felicia was, and sitting down by her side, took her hand.
“My poor child,” she said, “I hope you are not too unhappy here.”
The elder woman's voice was so soft, her manner was so gentle and feminine, that the girl's heart, that had been longing for six weeks, with a greater hunger day after day, for womanly sympathy, leapt towards her, and her eyes filled with tears.
“It is so strange here,” she said, piteously, “and I feel so lost, without my friends and occupations, and--and--”
“Well? Tell me. Perhaps I may be able to help you.”
“Other things. Sometimes I feel frightened. To-night--that newspaper--what Mme. Popea was saying--it seemed to scorch me.”
Mrs. Stapleton registered a mental resolution to talk pointedly to Mme. Popea on the morrow. If English girls should have dumb pianos, it was only fair that Roumanian widows should have invisible indecent pictures.