They never
had seen George as they now saw him.
Was that her son? Was it that little priggish,
insignificant fellow that she had made a god of? He was
dull, commonplace! Satisfied to sit dumb in the
background and take orders from those bourgeois French
Jews!
The play went on, but she saw nothing but George and his
wife.
There was the result of all her drudgery! The hot
summers of work in the filthy poultry yards; the grinding
out of poor jokes; the coarse, cheap underclothes (she
used to cry when she put them on, she hated them so).
Years and years of it all; and for that cold, selfish
fop!
His mother saw him leave the box, and knew that he was
coming.
"Oh, good-evening, George!" she said gayly, as he opened
the door. "A wonderful scene, wasn't it? I have always
wished to see Irving in `Hamlet.'"
"This is `Shylock,'" he said gravely, and turned to speak
to the others. They welcomed him eagerly, and made room
for him. He had lost something of the cold, blase air
which had ennobled him in the eyes of the young
women. He looked around presently, and said with a
comfortable shrug:
"It is so pleasant to talk English again! My wife
detests it. We speak only French. I feel like an alien
and outcast among you!" He laughed; his mother glanced
at him curiously. But Lucy turned her face away, afraid
that he should see it. As he talked, George noted the
clear-cut American features of the girls, and their
dainty gowns, with a keen pleasure; then he glanced
quickly at the opposite box.
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