"Yes. In the beginning--no. Then I was jealous, and angry. But a jealous woman is always ridiculous, my child, and men are so vain that the implied homage upsets them. Many a woman has lost a man's love through showing jealousy. So--in time I got used to it, and _tout pa.s.se_," she continued comfortably.

"And you wouldn't mind now, if----" asked Brigit, her elbows on her knees, her chin on her hands.

Madame Joyselle laughed. "_Wouldn't mind?_ Oh, _ma chere_! Just before you came, he had a very bad turn--it was an Italian actress--a pantomimiste, with the most beautiful arms in the world, and the face of a vicious little boy. And he? _epate._ His ties wouldn't tie, he got new shoes--fresh gloves every time he went to see her--scent, a new kind, very expensive--he sent her flowers by the cartload, and went every evening to see her act. Every day little mauve letters and wires from her (he always forgot to burn them, and I was afraid Toinon might see them), etc., etc., etc."

"And how did it end?" asked Brigit, her throat dry and hot. She hated the pantomimiste.

"End? My faith, my dear, it is of a simplicity, the end. _You came._"

"I came----"

"Yes. And he was so delighted with his new--daughter--that he promptly forgot his--love."

"But what did she do?"

"She made a fool of herself, poor thing; wrote, and telegraphed, and threatened to kill herself. So we sent Theo to see her, and she quieted down."

Brigit burst out laughing. "Sent Theo?"

"Yes. He always goes. He is very quiet and reasonable, you see."

"I see."

Madame Joyselle rose. "I must go and see about the dinner. Will you come? Ah, yes," as they went downstairs, "they are like that, the men.

But Theo will be faithful to you, of that I am sure. He is like my people, and then, thank G.o.d, he is not an artist!"

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Antoinette, I have something to say to you."

"So I ventured to gather from the fact that you have come to see me."

It was mid-May, and a fragrant breeze stirred the delicate curtains of Lady Kingsmead's little drawing-room in Pont Street. There were flowers everywhere, chiefly white lilacs, and the pale green and white chintz and the quant.i.ties of light-hued pillows on the sofas (all of which belonged, as yet, to Messrs. Liberty) made of the room a pleasant refuge from the unusual heat outside. Lady Kingsmead, dressed in pale pink, looked in the faint light very pretty as she leaned back in her deep chair and played with the Persian cat.

Carron, upright on his small gilt chair, was pale and agitated, the primitive feelings showing in his ravaged face looking in some way more out of place, because he was exquisitely frock-coated and had a fresh-blown tea-rose in his b.u.t.ton-hole, than they would have done if he had been shabby.

When Lady Kingsmead had spoken, he cleared his throat and began hurriedly: "Antoinette--my--my wife is dead."

"Good Lord, Gerald, how you startled me! Is she really?"

"Yes, I--I saw her this morning."

"Drink?" asked Lady Kingsmead, pleasantly.

He frowned. "No. Cancer."

"How--horrid!"

She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

"You look ill, poor dear. What is the matter? _Your_ looks are a bit on the blink, too, Gerry! You must buck up."

She sat down and dabbed gingerly at her eyes with a sc.r.a.p of handkerchief. "It _is_ rather tragic, in its very insignificance, isn't it? Well--what is it? Is it Brigit?"

Mutely and miserably he bowed his head, until she saw the carefully concealed thin place on his crown.

"I thought so. It's no good, Gerald--give me the cat, will you?--she dislikes you."

"She loathes me. And I would be burnt to death for her to-morrow."

She started at something in his tone--something she had not heard for years.

"Can't you get over it?"

"No."

"Then----"

"Oh, my G.o.d, Tony, _I_ don't know. Can't--can't you help me?"

"I!"

"Yes. She can't love that boy; he is utterly insignificant. She's marrying him for his money."

"No. She likes him. But, of course, the money helped. But she wouldn't marry you if you were a millionaire yourself. She loathes you. Always has."

"I am going mad, I think. I haven't slept for months. Look at my hand, how it shakes; anyone would think I was a drunkard! Look here, Tony, couldn't you ask her to speak civilly to me, at least?"

She was almost frightened as she looked at his piteous face. He had indeed changed appallingly in the last six or eight months, and there was a tremulous movement about his well-cut mouth that was alarming.

"Yes, Gerald, I'll ask her. I--I am awfully sorry for you."

"Thanks. As far as that's concerned, everybody in the world ought to be sorry for everybody else. We all have our little private h.e.l.l. When is the--is the wedding-day fixed?"

"Oh, no," she returned hastily, "dear me, no. She is in no hurry to marry, and he is, of course, dough in her hands. You, at least, needn't worry about that. Will you dine here?"

"Sorry----"

"She is to be here, and Joyselle. Theo is out of town."

Carron rose and hesitated. "Do you think she'd mind?" he asked piteously. A sharp pang touched her worldly heart. If, years ago, she had let him go? If she had not made him give up diplomacy because she wanted him in England? He would, doubtless, have divorced his impossible wife, and married, and this would not have come to him.

"Of course she won't mind. Does she know that you love her?"