“Our having it at Notre Dame?”
“Yes, or at the Madeleine. Your not having it at the American church.”
“Oh Delia wants it at the best place,” said Francie simply. Then she added: “And you know poppa ain’t much on religion.”
“Well now that’s what I call a genuine fact, the sort I was talking about,” Mr. Flack replied. Whereupon he at last took himself off, repeating that he would come in two days later, at 3.15 sharp.
Francie gave an account of his visit to her sister, on the return of the latter young lady, and mentioned the agreement they had come to in relation to the drive. Delia brooded on it a while like a sitting hen, so little did she know that it was right (“as” it was right Delia usually said) that Francie should be so intimate with other gentlemen after she was engaged.
“Intimate? You wouldn’t think it’s very intimate if you were to see me!” Francie cried with amusement.
“I’m sure I don’t want to see you,” Delia declared—the sharpness of which made her sister suddenly strenuous.
“Delia Dosson, do you realise that if it hadn’t been for Mr. Flack we would never have had that picture, and that if it hadn’t been for that picture I should never have got engaged?”
“It would have been better if you hadn’t, if that’s the way you’re going to behave. Nothing would induce me to go with you.”
This was what suited Francie, but she was nevertheless struck by Delia’s rigour. “I’m only going to take him to see Mr. Waterlow.”