"Does she keep the money?" George Flack inquired.
"Keep it?" Mr. Dosson stopped as he pushed aside the portière. "Oh, you innocent young man!"
"I guess it's the first time you were ever called innocent," Delia remarked, left alone with the visitor.
"Well, I was—before I came to Paris."
"Well, I can't see that it has hurt us. We are not extravagant."
"Wouldn't you have a right to be?"
"I don't think any one has a right to be."
The young man, who had seated himself, looked at her a moment. "That's the way you used to talk."
"Well, I haven't changed."
"And Miss Francie—has she?"
"Well, you'll see," said Delia Dosson, beginning to draw on her gloves. Her companion watched her, leaning forward with his elbows on the arms of his chair and his hands interlocked. At last he said, interrogatively: "Bon Marché?"
"No, I got them in a little place I know."
"Well, they're Paris, anyway."
"Of course they're Paris. But you can get gloves anywhere."
"You must show me the little place, anyhow," Mr. Flack continued, sociably. And he observed
