how can your father———? What devil has he paid to tattle to him?"
"You scare me awfully—you terrify me," said the girl. "I don't know what you are talking about. I haven't seen it, I don't understand it. Of course I have talked to Mr. Flack."
"Oh, Francie, don't say it—don't say it! Dear child, you haven't talked to him in that fashion: vulgar horrors, and such a language!" Mme. de Brécourt came nearer, took both her hands now, drew her closer, seemed to plead with her. "You shall see the paper; they have got it in the other room—the most disgusting sheet. Margot is reading it to her husband; he can't read English, if you can call it English: such a style! Papa tried to translate it to Maxime, but he couldn't, he was too sick. There is a quantity about Mme. de Marignac—imagine only! And a quantity about Jeanne and Raoul and their economies in the country. When they see it in Brittany—heaven preserve us!"
Francie had turned very white; she looked for a minute at the carpet. "And what does it say about me?"
"Some trash about your being the great American beauty, with the most odious details, and your having made a match among the 'rare old exclusives.' And the strangest stuff about your father—his having gone into a 'store' at the age of twelve. And something about your poor sister—heaven help us! And a sketch of our
