They seated her, bending over her with an
empressement which, to Mrs. Waldeaux's heated fancy,
was insulting. George came last, carrying his wife's
cloak, which he placed upon a chair. One of the men
tossed his cape to him, with a familiar nod, and George
laid it aside and sat down at the back of the box.
His mother leaned forward, watching. That woman had put
her son in the place of an inferior--an attendant.
The great orchestra shook the house with a final crash,
and the curtain rose upon the Venetian plaza. Every face
in the audience was turned attentive toward it. But Mrs.
Waldeaux saw only Lisa.
A strange change came upon her as she watched her son's
wife. For months she had struggled feebly against her
hate of Lisa. Now she welcomed it; she let herself go.
Is the old story true after all? Is there some brutal
passion hiding in every human soul, waiting its chance,
even in old age? It is certain that this woman, after
her long harmless life, recognized the fury in her soul
and freed it.
"Frances," whispered Clara, "when this act is over, go
and speak to them. I will go with you. It is your
chance to put an end to this horrible separation. They
are your children."
"No. That woman is my enemy, Clara," said Mrs. Waldeaux
quietly. "I will make no terms with her."
Miss Vance sighed and turned to the stage, but Frances
still watched the opposite box. It seemed as if the
passion within her had cleared her eyes.
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