XII.
Her absence had not been long and when she re-entered the familiar salon at the hotel she found her father and sister sitting there together as if they were timing her—a prey to curiosity and suspense. Mr. Dosson however gave no sign of impatience; he only looked at her in silence through the smoke of his cigar (he profaned the red satin splendour with perpetual fumes,) as she burst into the room. No other word than the one I use expresses the tell-tale character of poor Francie's ingress. She rushed to one of the tables, flinging down her muff and gloves, and the next moment Delia, who had sprung up as she came in, had caught her in her arms and was glaring into her face with a "Francie Dosson—what have you been through?" Francie said nothing at first, only closing her eyes and letting her sister do what she would with her. "She has been crying, father—she has," Delia went on, pulling her down upon a sofa and almost shaking her as she con-
