“Let her go, papa—do let her go home,” Mme. de Brecourt pleaded. “Surely. That’s the only place for her to-day,” the elder sister continued.
“Yes, my child—you oughtn’t to be here. It’s your father—he ought to understand,” said Mr. Probert.
“For God’s sake don’t send for him—let it all stop!” And Mme. de Cliche made wild gestures.
Francie looked at her as she had never looked at any one in her life, and then said: “Good-bye, Mr. Probert—good-bye, Susan.”
“Give her your arm—take her to the carriage,” she heard Mme. de Brecourt growl to her husband. She got to the door she hardly knew how—she was only conscious that Susan held her once more long enough to kiss her. Poor Susan wanted to comfort her; that showed how bad—feeling as she did—she believed the whole business would yet be. It would be bad because Gaston, Gaston—! Francie didn’t complete that thought, yet only Gaston was in her mind as she hurried to the carriage. M. de Brecourt hurried beside her; she wouldn’t take his arm. But he opened the door for her and as she got in she heard him murmur in the strangest and most unexpected manner: “You’re charming, mademoiselle—charming, charming!”
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 had timed her by their watches, a prey, both of them, 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. An irruption she made of her desired reappearance; she rushed to one of the tables, flinging down her muff and gloves, while Delia, who had sprung up as she came in, caught her closely and glared into her face with a “Francie Dosson, what HAVE you been through?” Francie said nothing at first, only shutting her eyes and letting her sister do what she would with her. “She has been crying, poppa—she HAS,” Delia almost shouted, pulling her down upon a sofa and fairly shaking her as she continued. “Will you please tell? I’ve been perfectly wild! Yes you have, you dreadful—!” the elder girl insisted, kissing her on the eyes. They opened at this compassionate pressure and Francie rested their troubled light on her father, who had now risen to his feet and stood with his back to the fire.
“Why, chicken,” said Mr. Dosson, “you look as if you had had quite a worry.”
“I told you I should—I told you, I told you!” Francie broke out with a trembling voice. “And now it’s come!”