“I thought he’d just be nice about my picture and give pleasure to Mr. Waterlow,” Francie went on. “I thought he’d just speak about my being engaged and give a little account; so many people in America would be interested.”
“So many people in America—that’s just the dreadful thought, my dear,” said Mme. de Brecourt kindly. “Foyons, put it in your muff and tell us what you think of it.” And she continued to thrust forward the scandalous journal.
But Francie took no notice of it; she looked round from Mr. Probert at the others. “I told Gaston I’d certainly do something you wouldn’t like.”
“Well, he’ll believe it now!” cried Mme. de Cliche.
“My poor child, do you think he’ll like it any better?” asked Mme. de Brecourt.
Francie turned upon her beautiful dilated eyes in which a world of new wonders and fears had suddenly got itself reflected. “He’ll see it over there—he has seen it now.”
“Oh my dear, you’ll have news of him. Don’t be afraid!” broke in high derision from Mme. de Cliche.
“Did HE send you the paper?” her young friend went on to Mr. Probert.
“It was not directed in his hand,” M. de Brecourt pronounced. “There was some stamp on the band—it came from the office.”
“Mr. Flack—is that his hideous name?—must have seen to that,” Mme. de Brecourt suggested.