tands--he's so bright," Francie vaguely pleaded.

"Yes, I guess he does--he IS bright," said Mr. Dosson. "Good-night,
chickens," he added; and wandered off to a couch of untroubled repose.

His daughters sat up half an hour later, but not by the wish of the
younger girl. She was always passive, however, always docile when
Delia was, as she said, on the war-path, and though she had none of her
sister's insistence she was courageous in suffering. She thought Delia
whipped her up too much, but there was that in her which would have
prevented her ever running away. She could smile and smile for an hour
without irritation, making even pacific answers, though all the while
it hurt her to be heavily exhorted, much as it would have done to be
violently pushed. She knew Delia loved her--not loving herself meanwhile
a bit--as no one else in the world probably ever would; but there was
something funny in such plans for her--plans of ambition which could
only involve a "fuss." The real answer to anything, to everything her
sister might say at these hours of urgency was: "Oh if you want to make
out that people are thinking of me or that they ever will, you ought to
remember that no one can possibly think of me half as much as you do.
Therefore if there's to be any comfort for either of us we had both much
better just go on as we are." She didn't however on this occasion meet
her constant companion with that syllogism, because a formidable force
seemed to lurk in the great contention that the star of matrimony for
the American girl was now shining in the east--in England and France
and Italy. They had only to look round anywhere to see it: what did
they hear of every day in the week but of the engagement of somebody no
better than they to some count or some lord? Delia dwelt on the evident
truth that it was in that vast vague section of the globe to which she
never alluded save as "over here" that the American girl was now called
upon to play, under providence, her part. When Francie made the point
that Mr. Probert was neither a count nor a lord her sister rejoined that
she didn't care whether he was or not. To this Francie replied that she
herself didn't care, but that Delia ought to for consistency.

"Well, he's a prince compared with Mr. Flack," Delia declared.

"He hasn't the same ability; not half."

"He has the ability to have three sisters who are just the sort of
people I want you to know."

"What good will they do me?"