“Well, what would that matter if HE liked you?” “Oh but he wouldn’t then! He’d hate me too.” “Then all you’ve got to do is not to do it,” Delia concluded. “Oh but I should--every time,” her sister went on. Delia looked at her a moment. “What ARE you talking about?” “Yes, what am I? It’s disgusting!” And Francie sprang up. “I’m sorry you have such thoughts,” said Delia sententiously. “It’s disgusting to talk about a gentleman--and his sisters and his society and everything else--before he has scarcely looked at you.” “It’s disgusting if he isn’t just dying; but it isn’t if he is.” “Well, I’ll make him skip!” Francie went on with a sudden approach to sharpness. “Oh you’re worse than father!” her sister cried, giving her a push as they went to bed. They reached Saint-Germain with their companions nearly an hour before the time it had been agreed they had best dine; the purpose of this being to enable them to enjoy with what remained of daylight a stroll on the celebrated terrace and a study of the magnificent view. The evening was splendid and the atmosphere favourable to these impressions; the grass was vivid on the broad walk beside the parapet, the park and forest were fresh and leafy and the prettiest golden light hung over the curving Seine and the far-spreading city. The hill which forms the terrace stretched down among the vineyards, with the poles delicate yet in their bareness, to the river, and the prospect was spotted here and there with the red legs of the little sauntering soldiers of the garrison. How it came, after Delia’s warning in regard to her carrying-on--especially as she hadn’t failed to feel the weight of her sister’s wisdom--Francie couldn’t have told herself: certain it is that before ten minutes had elapsed she became aware, first, that the evening wouldn’t pass without Mr. Flack’s taking in some way, and for a certain time, peculiar possession of her; and then that he was already doing so, that he had drawn her away from the others, who were stopping behind to appreciate the view, that he made her walk faster, and that he had ended by interposing such a distance that she was practically alone with him. This was what he wanted, but it was not all; she saw he now wanted a great many other things. The large perspective of the terrace stretched away before them--Mr. Probert had said it was in the grand style--and he was determined to make her walk to the end. She felt sorry for his ideas--she thought of them in the light of his striking energy; they were an idle exercise of a force intrinsically fine, and she wanted to protest, to let him know how truly it was a sad misuse of his free bold spirit to count on her. She was not to be counted on; she was a vague soft negative being who had never decided anything and never would, who had not even the merit of knowing how to flirt and who only asked to be let alone. She made him stop at last, telling him, while she leaned