“Well, what didn’t you like?” Mr. Dosson enquired, at this, after a short silence.
Gaston Probert made his choice. “Well, the light for instance.”
“The light—the electric?”
“No, the solar! I thought it rather hard, too much like the scratching of a slate-pencil.” As Mr. Dosson hereupon looked vague and rather as if the reference were to some enterprise (a great lamp company) of which he had not heard—conveying a suggestion that he was perhaps staying away too long, Gaston immediately added: “I really think Francie might come in. I wrote to her that I wanted particularly to see her.”
“I’ll go and call her—I’ll make her come,” said Delia at the door. She left her companions together and Gaston returned to the subject of Mr. Munster, Mr. Dosson’s former partner, to whom he had taken a letter and who had shown him every sort of civility. Mr. Dosson was pleased at this; nevertheless he broke out suddenly:
“Look here, you know; if you’ve got anything to say that you don’t think very acceptable you had better say it to ME.” Gaston changed colour, but his reply was checked by Delia’s quick return. She brought the news that her sister would be obliged if he would go into the little dining-room—he would find her there. She had something for his ear that she could mention only in private. It was very comfortable; there was a lamp and a fire. “Well, I guess she CAN take care of herself!” Mr. Dosson, at this, commented with a laugh. “What does she want to say to him?” he asked when Gaston had passed out.
“Gracious knows! She won’t tell me. But it’s too flat, at his age, to live in such terror.”
“In such terror?”
“Why of your father. You’ve got to choose.”
“How, to choose?”