“Oh I don’t know what piece it is; I haven’t seen it.” “Haven’t seen it? Didn’t they show it to you?” “Yes, but I couldn’t read it. Mme. de Brecourt wanted me to take it--but I left it behind.” “Well, that’s LIKE you--like the Tauchnitzes littering up our track. I’ll be bound I’d see it,” Delia declared. “Hasn’t it come, doesn’t it always come?” “I guess we haven’t had the last--unless it’s somewhere round,” said Mr. Dosson. “Poppa, go out and get it--you can buy it on the boulevard!” Delia continued. “Francie, what DID you want to tell him?” “I didn’t know. I was just conversing. He seemed to take so much interest,” Francie pleaded. “Oh he’s a deep one!” groaned Delia. “Well, if folks are immoral you can’t keep it out of the papers--and I don’t know as you ought to want to,” Mr. Dosson remarked. “If they ARE I’m glad to know it, lovey.” And he gave his younger daughter a glance apparently intended to show that in this case he should know what to do. But Francie was looking at her sister as if her attention had been arrested. “How do you mean--‘a deep one’?” “Why he wanted to break it off, the fiend!” Francie stared; then a deeper flush leapt to her face, already mottled as with the fine footprints of the Proberts, dancing for pain. “To break off my engagement?” “Yes, just that. But I’ll be hanged if he shall. Poppa, will you allow that?” “Allow what?” “Why Mr. Flack’s vile interference. You won’t let him do as he likes with us, I suppose, will you?” “It’s all done--it’s all done!” said Francie. The tears had suddenly started into her eyes again. “Well, he’s so smart that it IS likely he’s too smart,” her father allowed. “But what did they want you to do about it?--that’s what _I_ want to know?” “They wanted me to say I knew nothing about it--but I couldn’t.” “But you didn’t and you don’t--if you haven’t even read it!” Delia almost yelled. “Where IS the d---d thing?” their companion asked, looking helplessly about him. “On the boulevard, at the very first of those kiosks you come to. That old woman has it--the one who speaks English--she always has it. Do go and get it--DO!” And Delia pushed him, looked for his hat for him. “I knew he wanted to print something and I can’t say I didn’t!” Francie said. “I thought he’d crack up my portrait and that Mr. Waterlow would like that, and Gaston and every one. And he talked to me about the paper--he’s always doing that and always was--and I didn’t see the harm. But even just knowing him--they think that’s vile.” “Well, I should hope we can know whom we like!”--and Delia bounced fairly round as from the force of her high spirit. Mr. Dosson had put on his hat--he was going out for the paper. “Why he kept us alive last year,” he uttered in tribute. “Well, he seems to have killed us now,” Delia cried. “Well, don’t give up an old friend,” her father urged with his hand on the door. “And don’t back down on anything you’ve done.”