“Didn’t he say he was going there as soon as he came back from London—going right through without stopping?”
“I don’t know but he did,” said Delia. Then she added: “The mean coward!”
“Why do you say that? He can’t hide at Nice—they can find him there.”
“Are they going after him?”
“They want to shoot him—to stab him, I don’t know what—those men.”
“Well, I wish they would,” said Delia.
“They’d better shoot me. I shall defend him. I shall protect him,” Francie went on.
“How can you protect him? You shall never speak to him again!” her sister engaged.
Francie had a pause. “I can protect him without speaking to him. I can tell the simple truth—that he didn’t print a word but what I told him.”
“I’d like to see him not!” Delia fairly hooted. “When did he grow so particular? He fixed it up,” she said with assurance. “They always do in the papers—they’d be ashamed if they didn’t. Well now he has got to bring out a piece praising them up—praising them to the skies: that’s what he has got to do!” she wound up with decision.