“Praising them up? They’ll hate that worse,” Francie returned musingly.
Delia stared. “What on earth then do they want?”
Francie had sunk to the sofa; her eyes were fixed on the carpet. She gave no reply to this question but presently said: “We had better go to-morrow, the first hour that’s possible.”
“Go where? Do you mean to Nice?”
“I don’t care where. Anywhere to get away.”
“Before Gaston comes—without seeing him?”
“I don’t want to see him. When they were all ranting and raving at me just now I wished he was there—I told them so. But now I don’t feel like that—I can never see him again.”
“I don’t suppose YOU’RE crazy, are you?” Delia returned.
“I can’t tell him it wasn’t me—I can’t, I can’t!” her companion went on.
Delia planted herself in front of her. “Francie Dosson, if you’re going to tell him you’ve done anything wrong you might as well stop before you begin. Didn’t you hear how poppa put it?”