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Dosson couldn't turn his back at such short notice on a man who had smoked so many of his cigars, ordered so many of his dinners and helped him so handsomely to spend his money: such acts constituted a bond, and when there was a bond people gave it a little jerk in time of trouble. His letter to Nice was the little jerk.
The Marquis de Cliche did his duty with his wife, who mopped the decks, as Susan said, for the occasion, and was entertained in the red-satin drawing-room by Mr. Dosson, Delia and Francie. Mr. Dosson had wanted and proposed to be somewhere else when he heard of the approach of Gaston's relations, and the fond youth had to instruct him that this wouldn't do.
Dosson observed with detachment. "To some place where there are no newspapers, darling," Gaston went on. "I guess you'll have hard work to find one," Mr. Dosson pursued. "Dear me, we needn't read them any more. We wouldn't have read that one if your family hadn't forced us," Delia said to her prospective brother-in-law.
"Of course I didn't like EVERYTHING," he said, "any more than I like everything anywhere." "Well, what didn't you like?" Mr. Dosson enquired, at this, after a short silence. Gaston Probert made his choice. "Well, the light for instance." "The light the electric?" "No, the solar! I thought it rather hard, too much like the scratching of a slate-pencil." As Mr.
They dropped into chairs and joked with each other, mingling sociability and languor, on the subject of what they had seen and done a question into which he felt as yet the delicacy of enquiring. But they had evidently done a good deal and had a good time: an impression sufficient to rescue Mr. Dosson personally from the consciousness of failure.
Dosson, on his side, was grateful for the solution; he remarked "Well, sir, you've got a big brain" at the end of a morning they spent with papers and pencils; and on this Gaston made his preparations to sail.
Why the way they felt then, they detested his very name. To Mr. Flack himself? Why he had simply exposed him to the biggest snub he had ever got in his life. "Well, hanged if I understand!" poor Mr. Dosson had said. "I thought you liked the piece you think it's so queer THEY don't like it." "They," in the parlance of the Dossons, now never meant anything but the Proberts in congress assembled.
Dosson grew still more jocose, making nothing of a secret of his perception that Francie hit the bull's-eye "every time." Mr. Waterlow had returned their visit, but that was rather a matter of course, since it was they who had gone after him. They had not gone after the other one; it was he who had come after them.
"And please give her some more money!" her sister called after him. "Does she keep the money?" George Flack enquired. "KEEP it?" Mr. Dosson stopped as he pushed aside the portiere. "Oh you innocent young man!" "I guess it's the first time you were ever called innocent!" cried Delia, left alone with the visitor. "Well, I WAS before I came to Paris."
"No that you were the one he's after." "Francie Dosson, are you thinking of Mr. Flack?" her sister suddenly broke out. "No, not much." "Well then what's the matter?" "You've ideas and opinions; you know whose place it is and what's due and what ain't. You could meet them all," Francie opined. But Delia was indifferent to this tribute.
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