“You don’t mean to say you’ve DONE anything?” cried Delia, very white.
“It’s all over, it’s all over!” With which Francie’s face braved denial.
“Are you crazy, Francie?” Delia demanded. “I’m sure you look as if you were.”
“Ain’t you going to be married, childie?” asked Mr. Dosson all considerately, but coming nearer to her.
Francie sprang up, releasing herself from her sister, and threw her arms round him. “Will you take me away, poppa? will you take me right straight away?”
“Of course I will, my precious. I’ll take you anywhere. I don’t want anything—it wasn’t MY idea!” And Mr. Dosson and Delia looked at each other while the girl pressed her face upon his shoulder.
“I never heard such trash—you can’t behave that way! Has he got engaged to some one else—in America?” Delia threw out.
“Why if it’s over it’s over. I guess it’s all right,” said Mr. Dosson, kissing his younger daughter. “I’ll go back or I’ll go on. I’ll go anywhere you like.”
“You won’t have your daughters insulted, I presume!” Delia cried. “If you don’t tell me this moment what has happened,” she pursued to her sister, “I’ll drive straight round there and make THEM.”
“HAVE they insulted you, sweetie?” asked the old man, bending over his child, who simply leaned on him with her hidden face and no sound of tears. Francie raised her head, turning round to their companion. “Did I ever tell you anything else—did I ever believe in it for an hour?”