"We beg your pardon, Mr. Whitfield; we had entirely forgotten that clause. Unless I marry, your trusteeship continues until I am thirty years old, should I live so long."
"Not necessarily mine. I can resign, or death may release me, but some other person would be required."
"A most unjust and absurd provision," said the judge, draining his second glass, and striving to conceal his remembrance of the fact that Mrs. Maurice had expressly forbidden his connection with the trusteeship.
Mr. Whitfield smiled.
"We lawyers all know testators use only their individual standards of justice, wisdom, and fitness."
Eglah had folded the paper, replaced it in the envelope, and turned to the lawyer.
"It appears that if for any reason you should relinquish this responsibility, your successor is already appointed, and in that event I should become practically the ward of the Chancery Court, which never resigns, never dies."
She looked straight into her father's watching eyes, and continued slowly, distinctly:
"I shall not marry. Your stewardship, dear Mr. Whitfield, involves some additional years of trouble for you, but I am so deeply grateful to you, I shall certainly try to cause as little annoyance as possible."
A shutter swung open, the sun flashed in, and she crossed the room to exclude the glare.