“Why Mr. Flack’s vile interference. You won’t let him do as he likes with us, I suppose, will you?”
“It’s all done—it’s all done!” said Francie. The tears had suddenly started into her eyes again.
“Well, he’s so smart that it IS likely he’s too smart,” her father allowed. “But what did they want you to do about it?—that’s what I want to know?”
“They wanted me to say I knew nothing about it—but I couldn’t.”
“But you didn’t and you don’t—if you haven’t even read it!” Delia almost yelled.
“Where IS the d—-d thing?” their companion asked, looking helplessly about him.
“On the boulevard, at the very first of those kiosks you come to. That old woman has it—the one who speaks English—she always has it. Do go and get it—DO!” And Delia pushed him, looked for his hat for him.
“I knew he wanted to print something and I can’t say I didn’t!” Francie said. “I thought he’d crack up my portrait and that Mr. Waterlow would like that, and Gaston and every one. And he talked to me about the paper—he’s always doing that and always was—and I didn’t see the harm. But even just knowing him—they think that’s vile.”
“Well, I should hope we can know whom we like!”—and Delia bounced fairly round as from the force of her high spirit.
Mr. Dosson had put on his hat—he was going out for the paper. “Why he kept us alive last year,” he uttered in tribute.