One hour she resolved to leave her son with his wife, to go back to Weir at once and work with the poultry and Quigg's jokes for the rest of her life. She was dead. Let her give up and consent to be dead. The next, she would stay where she could see George sometimes, and try to forgive the woman who had him in her keeping. Perhaps, after all, she was human, as Clara said. If she could forgive Lisa, she could be happy with these young people and live--live in this wonderful old world, where all that was best of past ages was kept waiting for her. When they came to London, she went at once to Morgan's to make a deposit, for she had been hard at work on her jokes as she travelled, and had received her pay. "Your son, madam," said the clerk, "drew on his account to-day. He said he expected remittances from you. Is this to be put to his credit?" "My son was in London to-day? "He has just left the house." "Did he--he left a message for me? A letter, perhaps?" "No, nothing, madam." "Put the money to his credit, of course." She went out into the narrow street and wandered along to the Bank of England, staring up at the huge buildings. He had been looking at them--he had walked on this very pavement a minute ago! That might be the smoke of his cigar, yonder! She could easily find him. Just to look at him once; to hold his hand! He might be ill and need her; he never was well in foggy weather. Then she remembered that Lisa was with him. She would nurse him. She called a cab, and, as she drove home, looked out at the crowd with a hard, smiling face. Henry Irving that night played "Shylock," and Mr. Perry secured a box for Miss Vance. Frances went with the others. Before the curtain rose there was a startled movement among them, a 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.