There was a tap at the door. Before she could speak it was opened, and Jane, the brisk, came rustling in.
"There's a gentleman down-stairs, Mrs. Stanford, asking to see you."
Rose sprang up, her lips apart, her eyes dilating.
"To see me! A gentleman! Jane, is it Mr. Stanford?"
Jane shook her head.
"Not a bit like Mr. Stanford, ma'am; not near so 'andsome, though a very fine-looking gentleman. He said, to tell you as 'ow a friend wanted to see you."
A friend! Oh, who could it be? She made a motion to Jane to show him up—she was too agitated to speak. She stood with her hands clasped over her beating heart, breathless, waiting.
A man's quick step flew up the stairs; a tall figure stood in the doorway, hat in hand.
Rose uttered a faint cry. She had thought of her father, of Jules La Touche, never once of him who stood before her.
"Doctor Frank!" she gasped; and then she was holding to a chair for support, feeling the walls swimming around her.