nothing; there was fire and tumult in her brain. On the round table in her sitting-room supper was made ready, but she did not heed it. Excitement compelled her to walk incessantly round and round the scanty space of floor. Already she had begun to rehearse the chief scenes of Laura Denton; she spoke the words with all appropriate loudness and emphasis; her gestures were those of the stage, as though an audience sat before her; she seemed to have grown taller. There came a double knock at the house-door, but it did not attract her attention; a knock at her own room, and only when some one entered was she recalled to the present. It was Grace again; her lodging was elsewhere, and this late visit could have but one motive.
They stood face to face. The elder woman was so incensed that her lips moved fruitlessly, like those of a paralytic.
“I suppose you’re going to make a scene,” Clara addressed her. “Please remember how late it is, and don’t let all the house hear you.”
“You mean to tell me you accepted that
