But Leslie repulses the proffered embrace, and moves aside.
“Wait,” she says coldly; “wait.” And she looks inquiringly at Franz. “You do not know how and why I come.”
“No matter why you come, dear child,”—it is Papa, speaking in his oiliest accents—“we are glad to see you; very glad.”
Again Leslie’s eyes rest upon Franz, and Mamma says:
“Oh, speak out, my dear. This is our boy, Franz; your brother, my child.”
“Yes,” Papa chimes in blithely, “how beautiful this is; how delightful!”
Leslie favors Franz with a steady look, and turns to Mamma.
“Then I am not your only child,” she says, with a proud curl of the lip.
And Mamma, seeing the look on her face, regrets, for the once, the presence of her beloved Prodigal.
But Franz has quite recovered himself, and moving a trifle nearer the group by the door, he mutters, seemingly for his own benefit, “well, this let’s me out!”