Champion, the housekeeper at Kingsmead.

But one fault Brigit had not: she was no sn.o.b, and the least worthy thought roused in her as she contemplated her kindly hostess was that her mother would be very much annoyed when she met her daughter's future mother-in-law.

"Such delicious coffee," she said presently, "_and_ the rolls!"

"_Oui, oui, pas mal; c'est moi qui les ai faits._ I make myself----"

As she spoke there came a loud rap at the door, and Joyselle put in his head, crowned with a gold-ta.s.selled red-velvet cap of archaic shape.

"You permit, _ma fille_?" Without awaiting an answer he came in, gorgeous from top to toe in a crimson garment between a dressing-gown and a smoking-costume, girdled round his waist with a gold cord.

"She eats, the most beautiful!" he cried joyously, "and _pet.i.te mere_ and Yellow Dog look on! Is it not wonderful, _ma vieille_?"

Madame Joyselle smiled--sensibly. "It is delightful, my man, delightful.

But I fear you should not have come in--she may not like it."

"Not like it? Of course she does. Why should not the old beau-papa visit his most beautiful while she breakfasts? You are a goose, Felicite!"

Brigit, vastly amused by their discussing her as if she were not present, gave a bit of roll to the dog.

"A quaint little dog," she observed to them both.

Joyselle laughed. "Yes, yes, _il est bien drole, ce pauvre_.

But-ter-fly. And the name, too, _hein_? Some day I will tell you the story of why I have had nine dogs all named 'But-ter-fly.' There is so much to tell you, so much."

He talked on, very rapidly, changing subjects with the rapidity of a child, using his square brown hands in vivid gesture, marching about the room, teasing the dog who, since his master had entered, had had eyes and ears for none but him.

"The concert, you know, yesterday, was a grand success. All the papers are full of it. Many play the violin to-day, you see, but there is only one Joyselle."

"There is also a Kubelik," suggested Brigit slily, to see what he would answer.

"My dear, yes; there is Kubelik, and there is Joachim still, thank G.o.d.

_Chacun dans son genre._ But Kubelik is a boy, and he has 'violin hands'--fingers a _kilometre_ long. Look at my hands, and you will see why I am not his equal in execution. In other things----"

He looked gravely at his hands as he held them out to her. This was in its turn different from the childlike vanity of a minute past; he was a creature of a thousand moods, each one absolutely sincere.

Theo, she saw, was like his mother. From her he had his gentle voice and quiet ways; from his father only the splendid dark eyes.

Joyselle was a remarkably handsome man in his somewhat flamboyant way, and even the clear morning light failed to show lines in his brown face, though his silky, wavy hair was very grey about his brow. He could be compared to no one Brigit had ever seen; he was, even in his absurd velvet gown, head and shoulders above anyone she knew, temperamentally as well as physically. He could, she saw, go anywhere, among people of any cla.s.s, and find there an at least momentary niche for himself.

Gentleman? She would not answer her own mental question, but great artist, man of the world, good fellow, remarkable man, most certainly.

"Your hair is very charming," he was saying as she came to the above conclusion; "it seems to love being yours--as what would not? The hair of many women looks as though it were trying hard--oh, so hard!--to get away from them; but yours clings and--what is the word?--tendrils round your head as if it loved you."

"Ordinary curly hair," she answered in French.

"But no--black hair is usually dry and like something burnt, or of an oiliness to disgust. Is it not so, Felicite--is her hair not adorable?"

"_Oui, oui_, Victor; _oui, mon homme_. But we must go, for Lady Brigit will be wishing to rise. Theo, too, awaits her downstairs."

The big man, who was crouching on the floor playing with the dog, rose hastily. "Good G.o.d!" he cried in English words, but obviously in the innocent French sense, "I quite forgot that unhappy child! Come, Felicite; come Papillon, _m'ami_--let us disturb Belle-Ange no longer."

As if he had long been struggling with their reluctance to go, he shepherded them out of the room, singing as he went downstairs, "_Salut, demeure chaste et pure._"

CHAPTER EIGHT

The parrot, whose name was Guillaume le Conquerant, was a magnificent, fluffy, grey bird picked out with green. His eye was knowing, and swift and deep his infrequent but never-to-be-forgotten bite.

"He is studying you--dear," explained Joyselle, as he stood before the huge gilt cage with Brigit shortly after her appearance downstairs that morning. "It is a severe test that everyone who comes here has to undergo. He is writing his memoirs, too."

"It will be a sad day for you, papa, when his memoirs appear," put in Theo, who was smoking a pipe and walking up and down the room just because he was much too happy to sit still. "You have yet to see the _real_ Victor Joyselle, Brigit. This polite being is the one we keep for company."

Brigit laughed. "Is it true?" she asked the violinist.

"Yes," he returned unexpectedly, "you see now the happy Joyselle; the Joyselle _pere de famille_, domestic; the artist Joyselle, alas! is an irritable, nervous, unpleasant person, who forgets to eat, and then abuses his wife for giving him no dinner; an absent-minded idiot who leaves his own old coat at the club and goes off wrapped in the Marquis of St. Ive's sables; a swearing, smoking, wild-headed person, who adores, nevertheless, his little Theo, and that little Theo's beautiful _fiancee_."

At the end of this long speech his face, which had in the middle of it been sombre with a sense of his own iniquity, suddenly cleared, until a radiant smile transfigured it.

"My little brother adores you, M. Joyselle," said Brigit suddenly; "he will be _so_ pleased. He calls your hair a halo!"

"A sad sinner's halo, then. The beautiful saints have others. And your little brother, what is his name? And how old is he?"

"Tommy is his name, and he is twelve. He is music-mad, and such a dear!

Isn't he, Theo?"

Brigit had never been so happy. It was all like a dream, these warm-hearted, simple-minded people, the father and mother so ready to love her for the son's sake, the mental atmosphere so different from that to which she was accustomed. She felt younger and, somehow, better than ever before. And Theo would be very helpful to Tommy, and Tommy's joy, in hearing Joyselle play, something very beautiful. She had sent a wire to her mother the night before at the station, but her mother would not answer it, and there were at least several hours between her and the moment when she must leave Golden Square. The very name was beautiful!

It was raining hard, and the blurred windows seemed a kind of magic barrier between her and the tiresome old world outside.

Then there came a ring at the door, and a moment later Toinon, the red-elbowed maid-of-all-work, appeared, very much alarmed, carrying a card, which she gave to Brigit.

"Oh, dear--it is poor Ponty!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the girl, involuntarily turning to Joyselle.

"Poor----"

"Lord Pontefract, Theo. Oh, how _tiresome_ of mother!"

Joyselle frowned. "Do not call your mother tiresome," he said shortly.

"But who is this gentleman?"

Theo stood silently looking on. It was plain that it seemed to him quite fitting that his father should arrange the matter.

"Lord Pontefract--a friend of--of ours," stammered Brigit, abashed by the reproof as she had not been abashed for years.

"And do you want to see him?"