Again Francie's cat's-paw pounced on her. "How do you know?"
"Why—why—you can see he is one of that sort," squirmed poor Rose.
"Oh!" said Frances significantly, with a firm stare at her sister's scarlet face. "Deb, there is more in this than meets the eye—even than meets the eye."
"I don't care what you say," struck Rose blindly.
"Don't tease her," Deb interposed. "And don't be putting preposterous ideas into the child's head."
"Please, Deb, I am not a child."
"No, my dear, you are not; and therefore you know, as well as we do, that young Mr Breen is nothing to us."
"Did I say he was anything? It is Francie that makes horrid, vulgar insinuations."
"But how do you know that he shoots and plays tennis?" persisted Frances, with a darkling smile.
"Because he told me so—there!"