“I beg of you to say no more,” he murmured in a voice that whistled through his scanty row of teeth.
“Why?” objected the manufacturer, who showed no deference for age.
“Why,” said Uncle Stephen, “because you no longer understand the meaning of certain words.”
“Exactly. Words. Big words, when it’s you who are using them,” retorted Leo.
By way of conciliation, Charles Marcellaz contributed a legal explanation:
“Mrs. Frasne is guilty, but her act doesn’t come within the scope of the law. Theft committed by a wife to the injury of her husband doesn’t permit of any action. In accusing Mrs. Frasne, Maurice doesn’t expose her to any risk, and his testimony is strictly in accordance with the truth.”
But Uncle Stephen, whose far-away youth had been a stormy one, pronounced as a court of last resort:
“You don’t accuse a woman under any pretext, if you’ve been her lover. I recognise your son, Francis.”
The widow Roquevillard, since the beginning of the conference, had been chiding her son below her breath for the views he took. He got his downright intelligence from her, but not her kindness. She made up her mind now to support him openly against this old man who preached such a strange morality.
“Would you have us respect such creatures?” she asked.