Slater was alerted to his daughter's return by one of his boys on duty in the rooms overlooking the room. After watching her ascend the stairs and go to her room from the comfort of the shadows, Slater waited until he heard the soft, tell-tale breathing sounds of his daughter's sleep. He had listened to her sleep since birth, he knew when to recognise it and it was needed for the complicated out-of-hours jobs he needed to attend to on occasion.
He wasn't pleased with her. Striking up a cigar he positioned himself in the armchair by the window, inhaling deeply as Delia remained passed out on her bed. He'd stay here, all night, until she woke. There was no way she was going to get away with her behaviour and the only way to talk to her and make her listen was by cornering her early and making use of her painful head. Served her right - his boy had come back that night with a cracked skill and Slater had been in such a rage he'd almost cracked the other side. What did she think she was playing at, the silly cow? She was certainly her mother's daughter... but he'd never tell her that.
Curiously he did not sleep. He did not rest. All Slater did was hang his beady eyes on his child and mentally note everything about her. Money, garters, boy's clothes, wild hair, broken shoes... this was not a healthy appearance.