For a time they turned from the subject of Blanche and her ills to other themes; but when, about midnight, Dr. Broughton rose to leave, Mrs. Tate went back to it. "We're going to have the Le Barons here for dinner next Sunday," she said. "I wish you'd come in if you can. I want Percy to see what they're like."
"She relies on my judgment after all," said Tate, following the guest to the door. As they stood together in the hall, "You think the case is serious then?" he asked quietly.
The Doctor whispered something in his ear, and Tate nodded thoughtfully. "And how do you think it'll end if she doesn't stop it?"
Dr. Broughton tapped his forehead with his hand. "This is what I'm most afraid of." He seized his stick and thrust it under his arm. "But giving up her performance, I'm afraid, would be like giving up her life. She was practically born in the circus, you know, and I suspect from what your wife has told me that her husband fell in love with her in the circus. Outside of that she seems to have no interest in anything,—except, of course, her family and her baby. But to take her out of the circus would be like pulling up a tree by the roots."
Dr. Broughton was so used to making hurried exits from patients' houses that he lost no time in getting away from Tate. As he went down the steps his host stood with one hand on the knob of the front door, thinking. The Doctor had unconsciously given him a most fascinating suggestion. Around this his mind played as he walked back to the drawing-room, where his wife was yawning, and gathering, some books to take upstairs. He said nothing to her about it; before expressing his fancy, he decided to wait until he saw those curious people.
XV
Mrs. Tate was right in surmising that Jules had conceived a dislike for her. The first day he saw her he decided that she was a tiresome, interfering Englishwoman, and he watched with annoyance her growing intimacy with Blanche, whom he wished to keep wholly to himself. Of his wife's success at the Hippodrome he felt as proud as if it were his own; he loved to read the notices of it in the papers, and while Blanche was performing, to walk about in the audience and hear her praises. He had come to look upon her as part of himself, as his property; and this sense of proprietorship added to the fascination that her performance had for him.
Though his first ardor of devotion had passed, he was still tender with her; but his tenderness always had reference more to her work than to herself. He watched her as the owner of a performing animal might have watched his precious charge. Sometimes he used to lose patience with her for her devotion to the little Jeanne; if Jeanne cried at night she would want to leave the bed to soothe her. In order to prevent this, Jules had the child's crib moved into Madeleine's room, to the secret grief of the mother, who, however, did not think of resisting his commands. In his way Jules was fond of Jeanne; but he could not help thinking that before she came Blanche had given all her love to him. However, there was some excuse for that; but there was no reason why a stranger like Mrs. Tate should come in and take possession of them, act like a member of the family, and put a lot of silly ideas into his wife's head.