“Some one sent it, and I told Mr. Flack.”
“Do you mean HIS paper? Oh the horrid ape!” Delia cried with passion.
“Do they mind so what they see in the papers?” asked Mr. Dosson. “I guess they haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Why there used to be things about ME—”
“Well, it IS about us too—about every one. They think it’s the same as if I wrote it,” Francie ruefully mentioned.
“Well, you know what you COULD do!” And Mr. Dosson beamed at her for common cheer.
“Do you mean that piece about your picture—that you told me about when you went with him again to see it?” Delia demanded.
“Oh I don’t know what piece it is; I haven’t seen it.”
“Haven’t seen it? Didn’t they show it to you?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t read it. Mme. de Brecourt wanted me to take it—but I left it behind.”
“Well, that’s LIKE you—like the Tauchnitzes littering up our track. I’ll be bound I’d see it,” Delia declared. “Hasn’t it come, doesn’t it always come?”