Both belligerents advanced upon her. "Now, Susan," began Mrs. Balcome.
And "Look-a here!" exclaimed Balcome.
The sad voice of Dora interrupted. From the vestibule she shook a mournful head in a warning. "Someone is calling," she whispered. "It's Miss Crosby."
Like two combatants who have fought a round, the Balcomes parted, retiring to opposite corners of the room. Dora, having satisfied herself that quiet reigned, went out.
Hattie stifled a yawn. "What is Miss Crosby going to sing, Sue?" she asked indifferently.
"'O Perfect Love.'"
Balcome wheeled with a resounding flop of the hat. "O Perfect What?" he demanded.
"Love, Mr. Balcome,—L-O-V-E."
"Ha-a-a!" cried Balcome. "I haven't heard that word in years!"
Mrs. Balcome, stung again to action, swept forward to a renewed attack. "He hasn't heard the word in years!" she scolded. And Balcome, scolding in concert with her, "I don't think I'd recognize it if I saw it."—"Through whose fault, I'd like to know?"—her voice topped her husband's.
"Please!" A changed Sue was speaking now, not playfully or facetiously, or even patiently: her face was grave, her eyes were angry. "Mrs. Balcome, kindly take your place in the Close, to the left of the big door. Mr. Balcome, you will follow the choir." She waved them out, and they went, both unaccountably meek. Those who knew Sue Milo seldom saw this phase of her personality. Sue, the yielding, the loving, the childlike, could, on occasions, shed all her softer qualities and become, of a sudden, justly vengeful, full of wrath, and unbending. Even her mother had, at rare intervals, seen this phenomenon, and felt respect for it.