"You mean you can't choose your father," said Mr. Dosson, thoughtfully.
"Of course you can't."
"Well then, please don't like any one. But perhaps I should like him," added Mr. Dosson, faithful to his cheerful tradition.
"I guess you'd have to!" said Delia.
In the small salle-à-manger, when Gaston went in, Francie was standing by the empty table, and as soon as she saw him she said—"You can't say I didn't tell you that I should do something. I did nothing else, from the first. So you were warned again and again; you knew what to expect."
"Ah, don't say that again; if you knew how it acts on my nerves!" the young man groaned. "You speak as if you had done it on purpose—to carry out your absurd threat."
"Well, what does it matter, when it's all over?"
"It's not all over. Would to God it were!"
The girl stared. "Don't you know what I sent for you to come in here for? To bid you good-bye."
"Francie, what has got into you?" he said. "What deviltry, what poison?" It would have been a singular sight to an observer, the opposition of these young figures, so fresh, so candid, so meant for confidence, but now standing apart and looking at each other in a wan defiance which hardened their faces.
