Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. “You’ve been sneaking out just as often as Mary Lucia. “Girls. Why had he glanced up—quite in that way?. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. Noiselessly, his booted feet stepping with careful restraint, he started forward, signalling to Roding to follow. .
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