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