The two old plotters look at each other, and then turn away. Rage, chagrin, baffled expectation, speak in the looks they interchange. Franz is the first to relapse into indifference and stolidity.
“But, my girl,” Papa begins, excitedly, “this can’t be! You are a widow—ah, yes, poor child, we know that. But, my dear, a widow has rights. The law, my child, the law—”
“You mistake,” says Leslie coldly, “the law will do nothing for me.”
“But it must,” argues Papa. “They can’t keep you out o’ your rights. The law—”
Leslie rises and turns to face him, cutting short his speech by a gesture.
“There is a higher law than that made by man,” she says sternly; “the law that God has implanted in heart and conscience. That law bids me renounce all claims to my husband’s wealth. Understand this: I am penniless. There is but one thing that could induce me to claim and use what the law will give me.”
“And what is that?” asks Papa, in a wheedling tone, while Mamma catches her breath to listen.
“That,” says Leslie slowly, “is the restoration of little Daisy Warburton.”