The situation was no doubt an extraordinary, an unimaginable one, but

it had to be met. When he returned to the box, Prosper had himself in

hand, and, sitting a little farther back than before, he watched the

second act with a sufficiency of outward calm.

This part was the most severe test of his composure, for he had

fashioned it almost in detail upon that idyll in a cañon. There were

even speeches of Joan's that he had used. To sit here and watch Joan

herself go through it, while he looked on, was an exciting form of

torment. The setting was different, tropical instead of Northern, and

the half-native heroine was more passionate, more emotional, more

animal than Joan. Nevertheless, the drama was a repetition. As Prosper

had laid his trap for Joan, silently, subtly undermining her whole

mental structure, using her loneliness, playing upon the artist soul

of her, so did this Englishman lay his trap for Zona. He was more

cruel than Prosper, rougher, necessarily more dramatic, but there was

all the essence of the original drama, the ensnarement of a simple,

direct mind by a complex and skillful one. Joan's surrender, Prosper's

victory, were there. He wondered how Joan could act it, play the part

in cold blood. Now he was condemned to live in his own imagination

through Joan's tragedy. There was that first pitifulness of a tamed

and broken spirit; then later, in London, the agony of loneliness, of

separation, of gradual awakening to the change in her master's heart.

Prosper had written the words, but it was Joan who, with her voice,

the music of memory-shaken heart-strings, made the words alive and

meaningful. Others in the audience might wonder over the girl's

ability to interpret this unusual experience, to make it natural,

human, inevitable. But Prosper did not wonder. He knew that simply she

forced herself to re-live this most painful part of her own life and

to re-live it articulately. What, in God's name, had induced her to do

it? Necessity? Poverty? Morena? All at once he remembered Betty's

belief, that Joan was the manager's mistress--his wild, beautiful

Joan, Joan the creation of his own wizardry. This thought gave him

such pain that he whitened.

"Prosper," murmured Betty, "you must tell me what is wrong. Evidently

your nerves are in bad shape. Is the excitement too much for you?"

"I believe it is," he said, avoiding her eyes and moving stiff, white

lips; "I've never seen such acting. I--I--Morena says he'll let me see

her in her dressing-room afterwards. You see, Betty, I'm badly shaken

up."




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