Come."
He led his companion up the stairway. Halfway up, Lorison caught him
by the sleeve. "Remember," he gasped, "I love that woman."
"You desired to know.
"I--Go on."
The priest reached the landing at the top of the stairway. Lorison,
behind him, saw that the illuminated space was the glass upper half of
a door opening into the lighted room. The rhythmic music increased as
they neared it; the stairs shook with the mellow vibrations.
Lorison stopped breathing when he set foot upon the highest step, for
the priest stood aside, and motioned him to look through the glass of
the door.
His eye, accustomed to the darkness, met first a blinding glare,
and then he made out the faces and forms of many people, amid
an extravagant display of splendid robings--billowy laces,
brilliant-hued finery, ribbons, silks and misty drapery. And then
he caught the meaning of that jarring hum, and he saw the tired,
pale, happy face of his wife, bending, as were a score of others,
over her sewing machine--toiling, toiling. Here was the folly she
pursued, and the end of his quest.
But not his deliverance, though even then remorse struck him. His
shamed soul fluttered once more before it retired to make room for the
other and better one. For, to temper his thrill of joy, the shine of
the satin and the glimmer of ornaments recalled the disturbing figure
of the bespangled Amazon, and the base duplicate histories lit by the
glare of footlights and stolen diamonds.
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