put it into the paper—everything, I don't know what—and they think it's too fearful. They were all there together—all at me at once, groaning and carrying on. I never saw people so affected."
Delia listened in bewilderment, staring. "So affected?"
"Ah, yes, there's a good deal of that," said Mr. Dosson.
"It's too real—too terrible; you don't understand. It's all printed there—that they're immoral, and everything about them; everything that's private and dreadful."
"Immoral, is that so?" Mr. Dosson asked.
"And about me too, and about Gaston and my marriage, and all sorts of personalities, and all the names, and Mme. de Villepreux, and everything. It's all printed there and they've read it. It says that one of them steals."
"Will you be so good as to tell me what you are talking about?" Delia inquired, sternly. "Where is it printed and what have we got to do with it?"
"Some one sent it, and I told Mr. Flack."
"Do you mean his paper? Oh the horrid brute!" Delia cried, with passion.
"Do they mind so what they see in the papers?" asked Mr. Dosson. "I guess they haven't seen what I've seen. Why, there used to be things about me———!"
"Well, it is about us too, about every one. They think it's the same as if I wrote it."
