“Oh I won’t be mixed up with that—you can’t work that game on these Frenchmen!” the young man stated.
“Oh with Francie they’ll take anything back,” Delia Dosson declared. “They just love her, all over.”
“Well, they’re like me then,” said Mr. Flack with friendly cheer. “I’LL take her back if she’ll come.”
“Well, I don’t think I’m ready quite yet,” the girl replied. “But I hope very much we shall cross with you again.”
“Talk about crossing—it’s on these boulevards we want a life-preserver!” Delia loudly commented. They had passed out of the hotel and the wide vista of the Rue de la Paix stretched up and down. There were many vehicles.
“Won’t this thing do? I’ll tie it to either of you,” George Flack said, holding out his bundle. “I suppose they won’t kill you if they love you,” he went on to the object of his preference.
“Well, you’ve got to know me first,” she answered, laughing and looking for a chance, while they waited to pass over.
“I didn’t know you when I was struck.” He applied his disengaged hand to her elbow and propelled her across the street. She took no notice of his observation, and Delia asked her, on the other side, whether their father had given her that money. She replied that he had given her loads—she felt as if he had made his will; which led George Flack to say that he wished the old gentleman was HIS father.
“Why you don’t mean to say you want to be our brother!” Francie prattled as they went down the Rue de la Paix.
“I should like to be Miss Delia’s, if you can make that out,” he laughed.