ed, it
accentuated the drama. And among the many good things of life, drama,
come how and where and when it might, seemed to her supremely the best.
She desired it as a lover his mistress. To detect it, to observe it,
gave her the keenest pleasure. To take a leading part in and shape it
to the turn of her own heart, her own purpose, her own wit was, so far,
her ruling passion.

And of potential drama, of the raw material of it, as the days passed,
she found increasingly generous store at Brockhurst. It invaded and
held her imagination, as the initial conception of his poem will that
of the poet, or of his picture that of the painter. She brooded over
it, increasingly convinced that it might be a masterpiece. For the
drama--as she apprehended it--contained not only elements of virility
and strength, but an element, and that a persistent one, of the
grotesque. This put the gilded dome to her silent, and perhaps slightly
unscrupulous, satisfaction. How could it be otherwise, since the
presence of the grotesque is, after all, the main justification of the
theory on which her philosophy of life was based--namely, the belief
that above all eloquence of human speech, behind all enthusiasm of
human action or emotion, the ear which hears aright can always detect
the echo of eternal laughter? And this grim echo did not affect the
charming young lady to sadness as yet. Still less did it make her mad,
as the mere suspicion of it has made so many, and those by no means
unworthy or illiterate persons. For the laugh, so far, had appeared to
be on her side, never at her expense--which makes a difference. And the
chambers of her house of life were too crowded by health and agreeable
sensations, mental activities and sparkling audacities, to have any one
of them vacant for reception, more than momentary, of that
thrice-blessed guest, pity.

And so it followed that, as she fed the mincing pea-fowl, Madame de
Vallorbes' smile changed in character from reflection to impatience. A
certain heat running through her, she set her pretty teeth and fell to
pelting the pea-hens and chicks mischievously, breaking up all their
aristocratic reserve and making them jump and squeak to some purpose.
For this precious, this very masterpiece of a drama was not only here
potentially, but actually. It was alive. She had felt it move under her
hand--or under her heart, which was it?--yesterday evening. Again this
morning, just now, she had noted signs of it