reeping over his senses.
Presently the same impulse which had come to him so many times before
induced him to turn his head, to read in the faces of the audience the
reflection of her genius. He had often watched those long lines of faces
changing, each in its own way, under the magic of her art. To-night he
looked beyond. He knew very well that his search had a special object.
Suddenly he gripped the arms of his chair. In the front row of the pit,
sitting head and shoulders taller than the men and women who lounged
over the wooden rest in front of them, was Stephen. More than ever,
among these unappropriate surroundings, he seemed to represent something
almost patriarchal, a forbidding and disapproving spirit sitting in
judgment upon some modern and unworthy wantonness. His face, stern and
grave, showed little sign of approval or disapproval, but to John's
apprehending eyes the critical sense was there, the verdict foredoomed.
He understood as in a flash that Stephen had come there to judge once
more the woman whom his brother desired.

At last the second act ended, and John pushed back his chair. Sophy,
whose apprehensions were remarkably acute, especially where John was
concerned, lifted the edge of the curtain and understood. She exchanged
a quick glance with her companion.

"He won't like it!" she whispered.

"If only we could get him away before the next act!" John muttered.

They both glanced once more into the auditorium below. Many of the
spectators had left their places to stroll about. Not so Stephen.
Unflinchingly he sat there, with an air of dogged patience. He had
bought a program and was reading the names, one by one.

"Is there nothing we can do?" Sophy asked. "Couldn't we send a
message--persuade him that the last act isn't worth staying for?"

John shook his head.

"Stephen has come here with a purpose," he said gloomily. "I might have
guessed it. He will see it through. He will sit there till the end."

The curtain went up again and the play moved on, with subtle yet
inevitable dramatic power, toward the hated and dreaded crisis. Louise's
moment of combined weakness and strength was so wonderfully natural, so
very human, that its approach sent a thrill of anticipation through the
audience. The intense lifelikeness of the play predominated over every
other feeling. It was as if real things were happening, as if they were
watching and listening to a woman at the moment of her choice. And then
a