“Lord, what a fuss about an old newspaper!” Delia went on in her exasperation. “It must be about two weeks old anyway. Didn’t they ever see a society-paper before?” “They can’t have seen much,” said Mr. Dosson. He paused still with his hand on the door. “Don’t you worry--Gaston will make it all right.” “Gaston?--it will kill Gaston!” “Is that what they say?” Delia demanded. “Gaston will never look at me again.” “Well then he’ll have to look at ME,” said Mr. Dosson. “Do you mean that he’ll give you up--he’ll be so CRAWLING?” Delia went on. “They say he’s just the one who’ll feel it most. But I’m the one who does that,” said Francie with a strange smile. “They’re stuffing you with lies--because THEY don’t like it. He’ll be tender and true,” Delia glared. “When THEY hate me?--Never!” And Francie shook her head slowly, still with her smile of softness. “That’s what he cared for most--to make them like me.” “And isn’t he a gentleman, I should like to know?” asked Delia. “Yes, and that’s why I won’t marry him--if I’ve injured him.” “Shucks! he has seen the papers over there. You wait till he comes,” Mr. Dosson enjoined, passing out of the room. The girls remained there together and after a moment Delia resumed. “Well, he has got to fix it--that’s one thing I can tell you.” “Who has got to fix it?” “Why that villainous man. He has got to publish another piece saying it’s all false or all a mistake.” “Yes, you’d better make him,” said Francie with a weak laugh. “You’d better go after him--down to Nice.” “You don’t mean to say he’s gone down to Nice?” “Didn’t he say he was going there as soon as he came back from London--going right through without stopping?” “I don’t know but he did,” said Delia. Then she added: “The mean coward!” “Why do you say that? He can’t hide at Nice--they can find him there.” “Are they going after him?” “They want to shoot him--to stab him, I don’t know what--those men.” “Well, I wish they would,” said Delia. “They’d better shoot me. I shall defend him. I shall protect him,” Francie went on. “How can you protect him? You shall never speak to him again!” her sister engaged. Francie had a pause. “I can protect him without speaking to him. I can tell the simple truth--that he didn’t print a word but what I told him.” “I’d like to see him not!” Delia fairly hooted. “When did he grow so particular? He fixed it up,” she said with assurance. “They always do in the papers--they’d be ashamed if they didn’t. Well now he has got to bring out a piece praising them up--praising them to the skies: that’s what he has got to do!” she wound up with decision. “Praising them up? They’ll hate that worse,” Francie returned musingly. Delia stared. “What on earth then do they want?” Francie had sunk to the sofa; her eyes were fixed on the carpet. She gave no reply to this question but presently said: “We had better go to-morrow, the first hour that’s possible.” “Go where? Do you mean to Nice?”