“And you have nursed me through my illness; you alone?”
“Surely; who else would there be?” replied Mamma in an injured tone.
“Who, indeed!” repeated Leslie bitterly. “Sit down, Madam; I want to talk with you.”
Mamma drew forward a chair, and sank upon it with a gratified sigh. It had come at last, the opportunity for which she had planned and waited. She could scarcely conceal her satisfaction.
“You have nursed me,” began Leslie slowly, “through a tedious illness, and I have learned that you do nothing gratuitously. What do you expect of me?”
“Oh, my child—”
“Stop!” lifting her head, and fixing her eyes upon the old woman; “no evasions; I want the plain truth. I have no money. My husband’s fortune I will never claim. I have told you this; I repeat it. So what do you expect of me? Why was I not permitted to die in my delirium?”
Among her other talents, Mamma Francoise numbered that power, as useful off the stage as it is profitable behind the footlights—the power to play a part. And now, bringing this power into active use, she bowed her head upon her breast and sighed heavily.
“Ah, Leschen, you break my heart. We wanted you to live; we thought you had something to live for.”
The acting was excellent, but the words were ill-chosen.