“Then why didn’t you write to me, if you didn’t think it was me?”
“Write to you? I wrote to you every three days,” he cried.
“Not after that.”
“Well, I may have omitted a post at the last—I thought it might be Delia,” Gaston added in a moment.
“Oh she didn’t want me to do it—the day I went with him, the day I told him. She tried to prevent me,” Francie insisted.
“Would to God then she had!” he wailed.
“Haven’t you told them she’s delicate too?” she asked in her strange tone.
He made no answer to this; he only continued: “What power, in heaven’s name, has he got over you? What spell has he worked?”
“He’s a gay old friend—he helped us ever so much when we were first in Paris.”
“But, my dearest child, what ‘gaieties,’ what friends—what a man to know!”