e bill till it was
presented. What did you do with the play?"

Susan could only look at him helplessly.

He laughed, handed her a cigarette, rose to light a match for
her. "Settle yourself comfortably," said he, "and say what's
in your head."

With hands deep in the trousers of his house suit, he paced up
and down the long room, the cigarette loose between his lips.
Whenever she saw his front face she was reassured; but
whenever she saw his profile, her nerves trembled--for in the
profile there was an expression of almost ferocious
resolution, of tragic sadness, of the sternness that spares
not. The full face was kind, if keen; was sympathetic--was
the man as nature had made him. The profile was the great
man--the man his career had made. And Susan knew that the
profile was master.

"Which part did you like _Santuzza_ or _Lola_?"

"_Lola_," replied she.

He paused, looked at her quickly. Why?"

"Oh, I don't sympathize with the woman--or the man--who's
deserted. I pity, but I can't help seeing it's her or his own
fault. _Lola_ explains why. Wouldn't you rather laugh than
cry? _Santuzza_ may have been attractive in the moments of
passion, but how she must have bored _Turiddu_ the rest of the
time! She was so intense, so serious--so vain and selfish."

"Vain and selfish? That's interesting." He walked up and
down several times, then turned on her abruptly. "Well--go on,"
he said. "I'm waiting to hear why she was vain and selfish."

"Isn't it vain for a woman to think a man ought to be crazy
about her all the time because he once has been? Isn't it
selfish for her to want him to be true to her because it gives
_her_ pleasure, even though she knows it doesn't give _him_ pleasure?"

"Men and women are all vain and selfish in love," said he.

"But the women are meaner than the men," replied she, "because
they're more ignorant and narrow-minded."

He was regarding her with an expression that made her uneasy.
"But that isn't in the play--none of it," said he.

"Well, it ought to be," replied she. "_Santuzza_ is the
old-fashioned conventional heroine. I used to like
them--until I had lived a little, myself. She isn't true to
life. But in _Lola_----"

"Yes--what about _Lola_?" he demanded.

"Oh, she wasn't a heroine, either. She was just human--taking
happiness when it offered. And her gayety--and her
capriciousness. A man will always break away from a solemn,
intense woman to get that