“Oh any reason’ll do where Paris is concerned. Take some lunch?” Mr. Dosson added, looking at his watch. They rose to their feet, but before they had gone many steps--the meals of this amiable family were now served in an adjoining room--the young man stopped his companion. “I can’t tell you how kind I think it--the way you treat me, and how I’m touched by your confidence. You take me just as I am, with no recommendation beyond my own word.” “Well, Mr. Probert,” said his host, “if we didn’t like you we wouldn’t smile on you. Recommendations in that case wouldn’t be any good. And since we do like you there ain’t any call for them either. I trust my daughters; if I didn’t I’d have stayed at home. And if I trust them, and they trust you, it’s the same as if _I_ trusted you, ain’t it?” “I guess it is!” Gaston delightedly smiled. His companion laid a hand on the door, but paused a moment. “Now are you very sure?” “I thought I was, but you make me nervous.” “Because there was a gentleman here last year--I’d have put my money on HIM.” Gaston wondered. “A gentleman--last year?” “Mr. Flack. You met him surely. A very fine man. I thought he rather hit it off with her.” “Seigneur Dieu!” Gaston Probert murmured under his breath. Mr. Dosson had opened the door; he made his companion pass into the small dining-room where the table was spread for the noonday breakfast. “Where are the chickens?” he disappointedly asked. His visitor at first supposed him to have missed a customary dish from the board, but recognised the next moment his usual designation of his daughters. These young ladies presently came in, but Francie looked away from the suitor for her hand. The suggestion just dropped by her father had given him a shock--the idea of the newspaper-man’s personal success with so rare a creature was inconceivable--but her charming way of avoiding his eye convinced him he had nothing to really fear from Mr. Flack. That night--it had been an exciting day--Delia remarked to her sister that of course she could draw back; upon which as Francie repeated the expression with her so markedly looser grasp, “You can send him a note saying you won’t,” Delia explained. “Won’t marry him?” “Gracious, no! Won’t go to see his sister. You can tell him it’s her place to come to see you first.” “Oh I don’t care,” said Francie wearily. Delia judged this with all her weight. “Is that the way you answered him when he asked you?” “I’m sure I don’t know. He could tell you best.” “If you were to speak to ME that way I guess I’d have said ‘Oh well, if you don’t want it any more than that--!’” “Well, I wish it WAS you,” said Francie. “That Mr. Probert was me?” “No--that you were the one he’s after.” “Francie Dosson, are you thinking of Mr. Flack?” her sister suddenly broke out. “No, not much.” “Well then what’s the matter?” “You’ve ideas and opinions; you know whose place it is and what’s due and what ain’t. You could meet them all,” Francie opined.