"I hadn't been in his room for years," sobbed Lady Kingsmead, forgetting her complexion. "Did you see the pastel of me on the wall between the windows? And I gave him the clock, too, for his thirty-fifth birthday.

Oh, Brigit! He loved me insanely, poor Gerald, perfectly madly, and so did I." She broke off, to her daughter's relief, and sobbed again.

Brigit's flat was warm and smelt unaired. Two or three letters lay on the mat inside the door, a huge blue-bottle boomed at a window trying to get out.

Lady Kingsmead lay down on Maidie Compton's Chesterfield and wept loudly. "Oh, Gerald, Gerald, how we loved each other," she wailed. "He would have died for me. He very nearly killed himself----"

Suddenly the foolish woman sat up and pointed an accusing finger at her daughter. "And it is all your fault," she cried bitterly; "he said so in that letter--my poor love. Your fault, and you my daughter. You broke his heart, you tortured him, and you took him from me. I--I _hate_ you."

Brigit stared coldly at her. "Don't make a fool of yourself, mother,"

she said. "You know perfectly well that there is not a word of truth in what you say."

"There is, there is! It was when you began to grow up that he ceased loving me. It is all your fault. He wrote it to you. You are to blame; you murdered him, his blood is on your head! And I scolded him when he told me about you and Joyselle. I refused to believe him. Oh, Gerald, Gerald!"

How much she believed of what she said it is impossible to say, but her lack of self-control and her immense egotism were such that together they made a formidable force to argue against.

Brigit sneered as she looked down at her. "For Heaven's sake, don't be so ridiculous," she said impatiently. "And don't--lie."

"I am _not_ lying. He told me about you and Joyselle, and I believe him.

Yes I do, I believe him. You are in love with the man, and that's why you don't marry his son----"

"Look here, mother," Brigit's temper was rising fast. "Answer one question quietly, will you? Do you believe what Gerald Carron told you about me and Joyselle?"

And Lady Kingsmead, whose hysterical excitement was now well beyond control, screamed out that she did believe it.

Brigit rose. "Very well. Think as you like. And--good-bye."

She left the house without a word, and taking a hansom went straight to Golden Square.

Felicite, who was alone, kissed her kindly and insisted on giving her tea. This, however, Brigit refused. Desperate as she was, she had come to the point of feeling that she could never again accept the little woman's hospitality. What she was going to do she did not know, but she was not going to marry Theo, and she would never again come to Golden Square.

"No, thanks," she said gently, "I want to see your husband, so as you think he is there, I will rush up to Chelsea. You look tired--_pet.i.te mere_."

Felicite smiled. "I am. I have been turning out our room and re-hanging all the pictures. But I like doing it. How is dear Tommy?"

"Much better, thanks. He is going to Margate to-morrow--to the sea, you know."

Felicite went downstairs with her and kissed her again at parting. "Theo will be very glad you are in town," she said. "And you, my daughter--do things go better with you?"

Touched by the kind light in her innocent eyes, Brigit lied. "Ah, yes, much better, thank you," she returned; "everything is all right."

And when she was in her hansom hurrying Chelseawards, she felt with a sigh that it was a harmless lie.

"She is a dear, poor Felicite, and when Victor has told her that I will not marry Theo, and I have gone away--she will be less troubled."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

As she went up the stairs in the house in t.i.te Street, Brigit recalled the occasion of her other visit there and shuddered. Poor Carron. Could it have been partly her fault?

And that was her only tribute to his memory. Essentially selfish though the girl was, she was no hypocrite, and it did not occur to her now to make excuses for the man simply because he was dead.

But it had been just here at the turning of the dusty stairs that he had waylaid her on her way down after her first love scene with Joyselle, and she could not pa.s.s without recalling it.

Then she had been gloriously happy, feeling, because she and Victor loved each other, that the world was theirs; now she came a broken-willed, frightened woman, to plead with the man who had put her out of his life, to take her back. She would tell him that no matter what happened, she would never marry Theo, and--then, when he realised that she meant this, she would beg him to take her back.

And remembering the last days she trembled.

She knocked at his door, and a short, familiar bark answered the sound.

Papillon. But-ter-fly.

Joyselle opened the door, which had been locked, and when he saw her, his face, already sombre, darkened ominously.

"Brigitte--what do you want?" he asked, not offering to let her in.

Behind him, on a table, she saw his violin-case--unopened, and her heart gave a glad hope. He had not been working. He had been, she hoped, unable to work.

"May I come in, Victor?" she asked.

Still he did not move. "Why?" he asked uncompromisingly.

"Because I have things to tell you. Don't be afraid. I am not going to make a scene----"

He drew aside, and she went in and closed the door. Papillon sprang at her with delight, and she laughed sadly.

"_He_ is glad to see me," she said; "aren't you, Yellow Dog?"

Joyselle shrugged his shoulders and sitting down on the sofa lit a cigarette. "Well?" he asked after a pause.

Brigit sat down by him and took off her gloves.

"Victor--why have things--been as they have been of late?"

"You know why."

"Because the father in you is stronger than the lover?"

"I have never been your lover," he retorted harshly, hurling the words at her as if they had been an accusation.

She winced. "I am speaking English. Well--was it your loyalty to Theo that--that changed you?"

"I have been loyal, have I not? _Juste ciel!_" Rising, he walked about the great room, his hands clasped behind him. "My conduct was magnificent, was it not? Don't quibble with words, Brigit. In plain language, I was a scoundrel, a beast, and now I am trying to behave--not like a gentleman, but like a decent man. And why you won't let me, I don't know."

He was suffering, she saw with a sigh of relief.

"Then you still love me?" she asked coolly.