"No you won't—no you won't, my dear. They may whistle for Francie, but let them see that they can't whistle for all of us." It was the first sign he had given of being jealous of the dignity of the Bossons. That question had never troubled him.
"I know what it is," said Delia, while she arranged her sister's garments. "They want to talk about religion. They have got the priests; there's some bishop, or perhaps some cardinal. They want to baptise you."
"You'd better take a waterproof!" Francie's father called after her as she flitted away.
She wondered, rolling toward the Place Beauvau, what they were all there for; that announcement balanced against the reassurance conveyed in the phrase about Gaston. She liked them individually but in their collective form they made her uneasy. In their family parties there was always something of the tribunal. Mme. de Brécourt came out to meet her in the vestibule, drawing her quickly into a small room (not the salon—Francie knew it as her hostess's "own room," a lovely boudoir), in which, considerably to the girl's relief, the rest of the family were not assembled. Yet she guessed in a moment that they were near at hand—they were waiting. Susan looked flushed and strange; she had a queer smile; she kissed her as if she didn't know that she was doing it. She laughed as she greeted her, but her laugh was nervous; she was different every way from anything Francie had
