visage was that which brought the actor abruptly out of his spell. She
had emerged from the shadows noiselessly, and was leaning forward, her
strong hands gripping the edge of the table littered with its many
properties.

Mrs. Phillips had played emotional scenes herself, but never with such
melodramatic intensity as she now unconsciously displayed. Her whole
body shook as with an ague, her dark face was alive with a jealous fury
which told Irving Francis the story he had been too dull to suspect. The
truth, when it came home, smote him like a blow; his hatred for the
author, which had been momentarily forgotten--momentarily lost in his
admiration of the artist--rose up anew, and he recognized this occult
spell which had held him breathless as the thrall of a vital reality,
not, after all, the result of inspired acting. Instantly he saw past the
make-believe, into the real, and what he saw caused him to utter a
smothered cry.

Léontine turned her face to him. "You fool!" she whispered through
livid lips.

Francis was a huge, leonine man; he rose now to his full height, as a
cat rises. But the drama drew his gaze in spite of himself; he could
not keep his eyes from his wife's face. Léontine plucked at his sleeve
and whispered again:

"You _fool_!"

Something contorted the actor's frame bitterly, and he gasped like a
man throttled. Léontine could feel his muscles stiffen.