"Yes—yes—go on," said Brent.
"And her sour, serious, solemn husband explains why wives are untrue to their husbands. At least, it seems so to me."
He was walking up and down again. Every trace of indolence,
of relaxation, was gone from his gait and from his features.
His mind was evidently working like an engine at full speed.
Suddenly he halted. "You've given me a big idea," said he.
"I'll throw away the play I was working on. I'll do your play."
Susan laughed—pleased, yet a little afraid he was kinder than she deserved. "What I said was only common sense—what my experience has taught me."
"That's all that genius is, my dear," replied he. "As soon as we're born, our eyes are operated on so that we shall never see anything as it is. The geniuses are those who either escape the operation or are reëndowed with true sight by experience." He nodded approvingly at her. "You're going to be a person—or, rather, you're going to show you're a person. But that comes later. You thought of Lola as your part?"
"I tried to. But I don't know anything about acting except what I've seen and the talk I've heard."
"As I said the other day, that means you've little to learn.
Now—as to Lola's entrance."
"Oh, I thought of a lot of things to do—to show that she, too, loved Turiddu and that she had as much right to love—and to be loved—as Santuzza had. Santuzza had had her chance, and had failed."
Brent was highly amused. "You seem to forget that Lola was a married woman—and that if Santuzza didn't get a husband she'd be the mother of a fatherless child."
Never had he seen in her face such a charm of sweet melancholy as at that moment. "I suppose the way I was born and the life I've led make me think less of those things than most people do," replied she. "I was talking about natural hearts—what people think inside—the way they act when they have courage."