The girl stared. “Don’t you know what I sent for you to come in here for? To bid you good-bye.”
He held her an instant as if in unbelievable view, and then “Francie, what on earth has got into you?” he broke out. “What deviltry, what poison?” It would have been strange and sad to an observer, the opposition of these young figures, so fresh, so candid, so meant for confidence, but now standing apart and looking at each other in a wan defiance that hardened their faces.
“Don’t they despise me—don’t they hate me? You do yourself! Certainly you’ll be glad for me to break off and spare you decisions and troubles impossible to you.”
“I don’t understand; it’s like some hideous dream!” Gaston Probert cried. “You act as if you were doing something for a wager, and you make it worse by your talk. I don’t believe it—I don’t believe a word of it.”
“What don’t you believe?” she asked.
“That you told him—that you told him knowingly. If you’ll take that back (it’s too monstrous!) if you’ll deny it and give me your assurance that you were practised upon and surprised, everything can still be arranged.”
“Do you want me to lie?” asked Francie Dosson. “I thought you’d like pleasant words.”
“Oh Francie, Francie!” moaned the wretched youth with tears in his eyes.
“What can be arranged? What do you mean by everything?” she went on.
“Why they’ll accept it; they’ll ask for nothing more. It’s your participation they can’t forgive.”