"Bosh. You know perfectly well that I was never silly about my children.

Well--I don't care what you say about Brigit, I _know_ she is all right.

As yet, anyway," she added.

"She loves that--that brute," he stammered, wiping the perspiration from his face with a crumpled handkerchief. "I saw her face as she left his studio."

Lady Kingsmead pursed her mouth thoughtfully.

"That may be," she admitted. "I've thought for some time that something was in the air----"

Breaking off, she glanced hastily at him. The old habit of telling him her thoughts as they came to her was still strong, but this was not her Gerald Carron. This was a new man of whom she knew little. For this much wisdom she had learned: that every new love makes a new man of a man.

And this Carron, with his wild eyes, was no person to confide in.

"Come, buck up, old thing," she said, with an affectation of brusque good-humour: "you haven't been sleeping. Isn't that it?"

"Yes. I'll never sleep any more."

"And you're taking--Veronal?"

"Yes, sometimes. Oh, don't bully me, Tony! I'm--done."

"I should think you were, to come and tell a woman beastly stories about her own daughter! You'll be sorry to-morrow. Did you tell _her_ this beautiful idea by way of making yourself engaging?"

"I told her--yes."

"And she didn't knock you down? Upon my word, I am surprised. Now look here, Gerald; you must go. I'm going to dress. We are going to the Ca.s.sowary's ball. You'd better go to bed and try to sleep _without any Veronal_. Will you? Will you, Gerry, poor old boy?"

His nerves were in such a condition that this unmerited and unexpected kindness broke him down utterly. Suddenly, to her horror, the poor wretch burst into tears, sobbing like a child.

"Gerry, don't--oh, for Heaven's sake, don't!" she cried, laying her hand on his head. "You--you _mustn't_. Gerry, Gerry dear----"

"Yes, pat his head and call him dear!" cried Brigit furiously from the open door. "He insults me in the most abominable way, the vile little beast, and then you pet him. Bah! mother, you do really make me ill!"

Lady Kingsmead turned, amazed. "You are off your head, too! Can't you see he is _ill_?"

But Brigit's anger, nursed all during the drive home, burst out afresh.

All her life she and her mother had quarrelled; there had never been implanted in her even an idea of the common decency of filial respect, or of its semblance. Her mother's gusty, fitful temper had always, when roused, been given instant vent in a torrent of vituperation, and the girl, while too sulky to be so spontaneous even in the unpleasant sense of the word, had early acquired the habit of speaking to her mother as she would have to a greatly disliked sister.

So now, when her rage with Carron burst its bounds, and she found, as she thought, her mother taking his part, she gave free rein to her temper, and its eloquent bitterness struck Lady Kingsmead for the moment dumb.

Carron sat still, his face hidden in his hands. When at last Brigit's arraignment ceased, Lady Kingsmead's turn came, and more feebly, less effectively, but to the best of her powers, she gave back abuse for abuse.

It was not a pleasant sight. Unbridled rage never is, even when in a good cause, and these two undisciplined women had lost all dignity and said very bad things to each other.

Brigit's one excuse was her mistaken a.s.sumption that her mother had believed Carron's story, and when Lady Kingsmead had shrieked out everything else that she thought might hurt her daughter, she added, "I believed in you, you little brute, though he said he _saw_ you there. I might have known he wouldn't have dared to make up such a tale."

Brigit, who had stood quite still, now spoke. "Then--you believe him now?"

"Yes, I _do_!" lied Lady Kingsmead, goaded by the sneer on her daughter's fierce mouth.

There was a long pause, and then Brigit Mead went to the door.

"I am sorry I lost my temper and made such a beast of myself," she said slowly, "and--I will never speak to you again as long as I live."

She closed the door gently and went upstairs to her room.

It was done now, decided, her boats were burnt. From this day henceforth she would be spoken of as the queer Mead girl who doesn't live with her mother.

While she dressed for dinner she laid her plans with the quickness native to her. She would dine and dance at the Newlyns, and then she would go to the Joyselles' for the night.

The next day she would go and talk to a girl friend who had a flat in huge and horrible "Mansions" out Kensington way. She would live alone with a maid; and she would have to pinch and sc.r.a.pe--but that would not matter. And then--Joyselle would come to see her, and very probably some day they would lose their heads, and it would be her mother's fault.

There was much satisfaction in this reflection, for she ignored the fact that in all probability the crisis had been only precipitated by her mother's speech.

There was Tommy. Well, Joyselle would be good to him for her sake. And even if Tommy should elect to come and live with her, her mother could not prevent his doing so. She would fuss and cry and tell all her friends how ungrateful her children were, but in the end Tommy's firmness would prevail.

She laughed as she got out of the carriage at the Newlyns. By great good luck Joyselle was dining there, and Theo coming only to the dance.

"I will tell him," she thought, and her heart gave a great throb and then sank warmly into its place at the thought of seeing him. "He will turn slowly and hold his shoulders stiffly and try to look indifferent,"

she thought, "but oh--his eyes!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Sparrow and the Ca.s.sowary were much delighted with their own dinner and their own ball.

Freddy Newlyn was a kindly little man, with an absurd fussy manner full of importance, as so many kindly little men have. Is it by some gentle providential dispensation that the physically insignificant are so often upheld by harmless vanity?

The Ca.s.sowary, on the other hand, bony and distressingly red in the wrong places, suffered from a realisation of her own defects that she endeavoured to conceal by an a.s.sumption of the wildest high spirits.

This jocularity, of course, became at times rather painful, but as she was possessed of much money and a kind heart, it was forgiven her.

The dinner was very large, and the guests sat at small tables all over the place--a delightful invention of the Ca.s.sowary's, who screamed with piercing glee at the excitement displayed as lots were drawn for the different tables.

"Seven, Sir John? Then you'll find your partner and go to the library--only three tables there! d.i.c.ky, what is your number? Four? Oh, you lucky little brute The conservatory. Who's your girl? Oh, yes, Piggy! Aren't I a lamb?"

The numbers of the various tables were being drawn, as she spoke, from a vase on the drawing-room table.

"And you, M. Joyselle? Thirteen. Oh, what awful luck!"

Everyone screamed with laughter, for the Norman was looking with unfeigned concern at his bit of paper.

"_Je n'aime pas le treize_, madame," he protested, disregarding the prevailing mirth.

"But--what can I do? It's a nice table in the billiard-room. Who's your partner?"

"Lady Sophy Browne--which is she?"