"Well, you know what you could do," said Mr. Dosson, smiling at his daughter.
"Do you mean that piece about your picture—that you told me about when you went with him again to see it?" Delia asked.
"Oh, I don't know what piece it is; I haven't seen it."
"Haven't seen it? Didn't they show it to you?"
"Yes—but I couldn't read it. Mme. de Brécourt wanted me to take it—but I left it behind."
"Well, that's like you—like the Tauchnitzes littering up our track. I'll be bound I'd see it," said Delia. "Hasn't it come, doesn't it always come?"
"I guess we haven't had the last—unless it's somewhere round," said Mr. Dosson.
"Father, go out and get it—you can buy it on the boulevard!" Delia continued. "Francie, what did you want to tell him?"
"I didn't know; I was just conversing; he seemed to take so much interest."
"Oh, he's a deep one!" groaned Delia.
"Well, if folks are immoral you can't keep it out of the papers—and I don't know as you ought to want to," Mr. Dosson remarked. "If they are I'm glad to know it, lovey." And he gave his younger daughter a glance apparently intended to show that in this case he should know what to do.
