“I saw your father downstairs--he says it’s all right,” said the journalist, advancing with a brave grin. “He told me to come straight up--I had quite a talk with him.” “All right--ALL RIGHT?” Delia Dosson repeated, springing up. “Yes indeed--I should say so!” Then she checked herself, asking in another manner: “Is that so? poppa sent you up?” And then in still another: “Well, have you had a good time at Nice?” “You’d better all come right down and see. It’s lovely down there. If you’ll come down I’ll go right back. I guess you want a change,” Mr. Flack went on. He spoke to Delia but he looked at Francie, who showed she had not been asleep by the quick consciousness with which she raised herself on her sofa. She gazed at the visitor with parted lips, but uttered no word. He barely faltered, coming toward her with his conscious grimace and his hand out. His knowing eyes were more knowing than ever, but had an odd appearance of being smaller, like penetrating points. “Your father has told me all about it. Did you ever hear of anything so cheap?” “All about what?--all about what?” said Delia, whose attempt to represent happy ignorance was menaced by an intromission of ferocity. She might succeed in appearing ignorant, but could scarcely succeed in appearing kind. Francie had risen to her feet and had suffered Mr. Flack to possess himself for a moment of her hand, but neither of them had asked the young man to sit down. “I thought you were going to stay a month at Nice?” Delia continued. “Well, I was, but your father’s letter started me up.” “Father’s letter?” “He wrote me about the row--didn’t you know it? Then I broke. You didn’t suppose I was going to stay down there when there were such times up here.” “Gracious!” Delia panted. “Is it pleasant at Nice? Is it very gay? Isn’t it very hot now?” Francie rather limply asked. “Oh it’s all right. But I haven’t come up here to crow about Nice, have I?” “Why not, if we want you to?”--Delia spoke up. Mr. Flack looked at her for a moment very hard, in the whites of the eyes; then he replied, turning back to her sister: “Anything YOU like, Miss Francie. With you one subject’s as good as another. Can’t we sit down? Can’t we be comfortable?” he added. “Comfortable? of course we can!” cried Delia, but she remained erect while Francie sank upon the sofa again and their companion took possession of the nearest chair. “Do you remember what I told you once, that the people WILL have the plums?” George Flack asked with a hard buoyancy of the younger girl. She looked an instant as if she were trying to recollect what he had told her; and then said, more remotely, “DID father write to you?” “Of course he did. That’s why I’m here.” “Poor father, sometimes he doesn’t know WHAT to do!” Delia threw in with violence.