whisper, and then Clara
turned to Mrs. Waldeaux.

"Frances, Lisa is coming into the opposite box," she said. "She is
really a beautiful woman in that decollete gown, and her cheeks
flushed, and her eyes---- I had no idea! She is superb!"

Two men in the dress of French officers entered the box with Lisa.
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. 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, go