She was tired, though, and a little nervous, and Mrs. Champney felt sorry for her; but Robert would have it so. His mother must see what Molly could do. He lay back in his chair, smoking, with an air of regal indifference, as if he were a young sultan who had commanded this performance but was not much interested in it; but as a matter of fact he was twice as nervous as Molly. He had spoken to his mother before about Molly’s singing, and Mrs. Champney had thought of it as an agreeable accomplishment for a son’s wife, but this performance amazed her. This was not a parlor accomplishment, this big, glorious voice, true and clear, effortless because so perfectly managed. This was an art, and Molly was an artist. “Molly!” she cried, when the song was done. “Molly, my dear! I don’t know what to say!” Molly flushed with pleasure. “I do love music,” she said. “I often hope Bobbetty will care about it.” “That was a darned silly song, though,” observed Robert. Molly turned away hastily. “I know it was!” she said cheerfully. But Mrs. Champney had seen the tears come into her eyes. Molly was hurt. She didn’t understand, and unfortunately Mrs. Champney did. She knew that Robert had been trying to tell his mother that Molly could do even better than this—that she could, if she chose, sing the most prodigious songs. He was afraid that his mother would judge and condemn Molly for that darned silly song about “the flowers all nodding on yonder hill.” “That’s what being a mother-in-law really means,” said Mrs. Champney to herself. “It means being the third person, the one who stands outside and sees everything—all the poor, pitiful little faults and weaknesses. Love won’t help. The more I love them, the more I can’t help seeing, and they’ll know—they’ll always know. When Robert is impatient, Molly will know that I’ve noticed it, and she’ll think she has to notice it, too. When Molly is careless, Robert will imagine that I’m blaming her, and he’ll feel ashamed of her. That’s why mothers-in-law make trouble. It’s not because they always interfere, or because they’re troublesome and domineering. It’s because they _see_ all the little things that nobody ought to see—the little things that would never grow important if a third person wasn’t there. I used to feel so sorry for mothers-in-law. I used to think it was a vulgar, heartless joke about their making trouble. A joke? Oh, it’s the worst, most horrible joke in the world—because it’s true!” IV Mrs. Champney did not sleep well that night. When she first turned out the light, a strange sort of panic seized her. She felt trapped, shut in, here in this unfamiliar room, in this house where she had no business to be, and yet could not leave. She got up and turned on the light, and that was better, for she could think more clearly in the light. She propped herself up on the pillows, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and sat there, trying to find the way out.