I should do something—in perfect innocence—that they would think monstrous."
"Well, what would that matter if he liked you?"
"Oh, but he wouldn't, then! He would hate me too."
"Then all you've got to do is not to do it," Delia said.
"Oh, but I should—every time," her sister went on. Delia looked at her a moment. "What are you talking about?"
"Yes, what am I? It's disgusting!" And Francie sprang up.
"I'm sorry you have such thoughts," said Delia, sententiously.
"It's disgusting to talk about a gentleman—and his sisters and his society and everything else—before he has scarcely looked at you."
"It's disgusting if he isn't just dying; but it isn't if he is."
"Well, I'll make him skip!" Francie went on.
"Oh, you're worse than father!" her sister cried, giving her a push as they went to bed.
They reached Saint-Germain with their companions nearly an hour before the time that had been fixed for dinner; the purpose of this being to enable them to enjoy with what remained of daylight—a stroll on the celebrated terrace and a study of the magnificent view. The evening was splendid
