The Real Charlotte. 12^ 



by Mrs. Gascogne. Exhilarated by this success, she walked 

 home at a brisk pace, regardless of the heat, and of the 

 weight of the rusty black tourists' bag which she always 

 wore, slung across her shoulders by a strap, on her ex- 

 peditions into the town. There was no one to be seen in 

 the house when she came into it, except the exiled cats, 

 who were sleeping moodily in a patch of sunshine on the 

 hall-mat, and after some passing endearments, their mistress 

 went on into the dining-room, in which, by preference, as 

 well as for economy, she sat in the mornings. It had, at all 

 events, one advantage over the drawing-room, in possessing 

 a sunny French window, opening on to the little grass- 

 garden — a few untidy flower-beds, with a high, undipped 

 hedge surrounding them, the resort of cats and their break- 

 fast dishes, but for all that a pleasant outlook on a hot day. 

 Francie had been writing at the dinner-table, and Charlotte 

 sat down in the chair that her cousin had vacated, and 

 began to add up the expenses of the morning. ^Vhen she 

 had finished, she opened the blotter to dry her figures, and 

 saw, lying in it, the letter that Francie had begun. 



In the matter of reading a letter not intended for her eye, 

 Miss Mullen recognised only her own inclinations, and the 

 facilities afforded to her by fate, and in this instance one 

 played into the hands of the other. She read the letter 

 through quickly, her mouth set at its grimmest expression 

 of attention, and replaced it carefully in the blotting-case 

 where she found it. She sat still, her two fists clenched on 

 the table before her, and her face rather redder than 

 even the hot walk from Lismoyle had made it. 



There had been a good deal of information in the letter 

 that was new to her, and it seemed important enough to de- 

 mand much consideration. The reflection on her own con- 

 tribution to the bazaar did not hurt her in the least_, in fact 

 it slightly raised her opinion of Francie that she should 

 have noticed it ; but that ingenuous confidence about the 

 evening spent in the gallery was another affair. At this 

 point in her reflections, she became aware that her eye was 

 attracted by something glittering on the green baize of the 

 dinner-table, half-hidden under two or three loose sheets of 

 paper. It was the bangle that she remembered having seen 

 on Francie's wrist, and she took it up and looked curiously 



