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Dosson by the hour about his master-plan of making the touchy folks themselves fall into line, but had never dreamed this man would subsidise him as an interesting struggler. The only character in which he could expect it would be that of Francie's accepted suitor, and then the liberality would have Francie and not himself for its object.
Dosson beamed at her for common cheer. "Do you mean that piece about your picture that you told me about when you went with him again to see it?" Delia demanded. "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 Brecourt wanted me to take it but I left it behind."
Dosson could have opposed but an indefensible, in fact an inarticulate, laxity. She had touched on her deepest conviction in saying to Francie that the correspondent of the Reverberator had played them that trick on purpose to get them into such trouble with the Proberts that he might see his own hopes bloom again in the heat of their disaster.
Dosson had with the greatest docility disposed himself to wait on the young man: he had as a matter of course risen and made his way across the court to announce to his child that she had a visitor. He looked submissive, almost servile, as he preceded the visitor, thrusting his head forward in his quest; but it was not in Mr. Flack's line to notice that sort of thing.
Francie wailed; after which she suddenly shivered. And then she added that she was sick she was going to bed, and her sister took her off to her room. Mr. Dosson that afternoon, sitting by his younger daughter's bedside, read the dreadful "piece" out to both his children from the copy of the Reverberator he had secured on the boulevard.
Give that up; you might as well first as last, for the girl's an exquisite fact, she'll PREVAIL, and it will be better to accept her than to let her accept you." Mme. de Brecourt asked him if Miss Dosson had a fortune, and he said he knew nothing about that. Her father certainly must be rich, but he didn't mean to ask for a penny with her.
"You don't mean to say you've DONE anything?" cried Delia, very white. "It's all over, it's all over!" With which Francie's face braved denial. "Are you crazy, Francie?" Delia demanded. "I'm sure you look as if you were." "Ain't you going to be married, childie?" asked Mr. Dosson all considerately, but coming nearer to her.
It was fatuous to miss so little the fine perceptions one didn't have: so far from its showing experience it showed a sad simplicity not to FEEL Francie Dosson. He thanked God she was just the sort of imponderable infinite quantity, such as there were no stupid terms for, that he did feel. "And what else is she worth?" Mr. Probert asked after a momentary hesitation. "How do you mean, what else?"
Dosson repeated while the smoke of his cigar, curling round the question, gave him the air of putting it with placidity. "They think I've insulted THEM they're in an awful state they're almost dead. Mr. Flack has put it into the paper everything, I don't know what and they think it's too wicked. They were all there together all at me at once, weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth.
On leaving Mme. de Brecourt Francie's lover had written to Delia that he desired half an hour's private conversation with her father on the morrow at half-past eleven; his impatience forbade him to wait for a more canonical hour. He asked her to be so good as to arrange that Mr. Dosson should be there to receive him and to keep Francie out of the way. Delia acquitted herself to the letter.
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