Delia stared. "What on earth do they want then?"
Francie had sunk upon the sofa; her eyes were fixed on the carpet. She made no reply to her sister's question but presently she said, "We had better go to-morrow, the first hour that's possible."
"Go where? Do you mean to Nice?"
"I don't care where. Anywhere, to get away."
"Before Gaston comes—without seeing him? "
"I don't want to see him. When they were all ranting and raving at me just now I wished he was there—I told them so. But now I feel differently—I can never see him again."
"I don't suppose you're crazy, are you?" cried Delia.
"I can't tell him it wasn't me—I can't, I can't!" the younger girl pursued.
Delia planted herself in front of her. "Francie Dosson, if you're going to tell him you've done anything wrong you might as well stop before you begin. Didn't you hear what father said?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Francie replied, listlessly.
"'Don't give up an old friend—there's nothing on earth so mean.' Now isn't Gaston Probert an old friend?"
"It will be very simple—he will give me up."
"Then he'll be a low wretch."
"Not in the least—he'll give me up as he took me. He would never have asked me to marry
