Chapter 12 - Page 2

sister, "I'll drive straight round there and make THEM."

"HAVE they insulted you, sweetie?" asked the old man, bending over
his child, who simply leaned on him with her hidden face and no sound of
tears. Francie raised her head, turning round to their companion. "Did I
ever tell you anything else--did I ever believe in it for an hour?"

"Oh well, if you've done it on purpose to triumph over me we might as
well go home, certainly. But I guess," Delia added, "you had better just
wait till Gaston comes."

"It will be worse when he comes--if he thinks the same as they do."

"HAVE they insulted you--have they?" Mr. Dosson repeated while the smoke
of his cigar, curling round the question, gave him the air of putting it
with placidity.

"They think I've insulted THEM--they're in an awful state--they're
almost dead. Mr. Flack has put it into the paper--everything, I don't
know what--and they think it's too wicked. They were all there together
--all at me at once, weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth. I
never saw people so affected."

Delia's face grew big with her stare. "So affected?"

"Ah yes, I guess there's a good deal OF THAT," said Mr. Dosson.

"It's too real--too terrible; you don't understand. It's all printed
there--that they're immoral, and everything about them; everything
that's private and dreadful," Francie explained.

"Immoral, is that so?" Mr. Dosson threw off.

"And about me too, and about Gaston and my marriage, and all sorts of
personalities, and all the names, and Mme. de Villepreux, and
everything. It's all printed there and they've read it. It says one of
them steals."

"Will you be so good as to tell me what you're talking about?" Delia
enquired sternly. "Where is it printed and what have we got to do with
it?"

"Some one sent it, and I told Mr. Flack."

"Do you mean HIS paper? Oh the horrid ape!" Delia cried with passion.

"Do they mind so what they see in the papers?" asked Mr. Dosson. "I
guess they haven't seen what I've seen. Why there used to be things
about ME--"

"Well, it IS about us too--about every one. They think it's the same as
if I wrote it," Francie ruefully mentioned.

"Well, you know what you COULD do!" And Mr. Dosson beamed at her for
common cheer.

"Do you mean that piece about your picture--that you told me about when
you went with him again to see it?" Delia demanded.

"Oh I don't know what piece it is; I haven't seen it."

"Haven't seen it? Didn't