"No, no; I certainly do _not_ want to see him."

"Then I will go and tell him so."

"No, no. I--I had better go, don't you think, Theo?"

Poor Pontefract seemed rather piteous to her as he was discussed, and her note had been curt and unsympathetic.

Theo looked up from his work of filling his pipe.

"I don't know. I should do as papa says."

"No. I must see him. I shall be back in a minute."

She ran downstairs almost into Pontefract's arms, for he had been left in the pa.s.sage by the horrified Toinon.

"Oh--sorry!" she exclaimed. "Come in here, will you?" "Here" was the unused "salon" of the house, and in its austere ugliness would have attracted the girl's attention at any other time. But she had now before her something she had never seen, a perfectly sober Pontefract. And though red, a little puffy, and watery as to eye, the man looked what he was, an English gentleman. Brigit felt as though she had returned to an uncongenial home after a tour into some strange, delightful country.

"I--I owe you an apology, I suppose," she said, so simply that he stared.

"No, you don't, Lady Brigit. You wrote me a--a very kind note. But I wanted to ask you to reconsider. I--I am unhappy."

There was a short pause, during which he looked at her unfalteringly, and then he went on with a certain dignity: "I have--drunk too much of late years, I know, but--I will never do so again. And I think I could make you happy."

"Did mother send you here?" asked the girl suddenly.

"No; I telephoned her this morning for your address. She would be glad--if you could make up your mind."

"I have made up my mind, Lord Pontefract. I am going to marry Theo Joyselle. And--I think I am going to be happy. I--like them all very much. And," holding out her hand, "I am _very_ sorry to have hurt you."

As she spoke the sound of music--violin music--came down the stairs.

They both started, for it was the Wedding March from "Lohengrin."

Brigit's small face went white with anger. "I--am sorry," she stammered; "it is--ghastly. It isn't Theo--it is his father. Oh, _do_ go!"

Pontefract nodded. "Yes, I'll go. And--never mind, Brigit. He doesn't _know_, the old chap!"

He left the room hastily, and she ran upstairs, her hands clenched.

It was as she expected: Theo had left the room, and Joyselle stood alone by the open door, his face radiant with malicious, delight. "_Parti, hein_? I thought he'd--What is the matter?" he ended hastily, staring at her.

She went straight to him, breathing hard, her brows nearly meeting. "How _could_ you do such a thing? It was abominable--hideous!"

"What was abominable?"

"To play that Wedding March! Theo had told you about--about him, and you did it to hurt him. Oh, how could _anybody_ do such a thing!"

Joyselle put his violin carefully into its case.

"You are rude, mademoiselle," he returned sternly; "very rude indeed.

But you are--my guest."

And he left the room.

Brigit's temper was very violent, but she had seen in his set face signs of one much worse than her own, and, with the strange unexpectedness that seemed to characterise the man, his last move was as fully that of a gentleman as his trick with the Wedding March had been shocking.

He was her host, and--he had left her rather than forget that fact.

For the first time in her life she was utterly at a loss. What should she do?

She was still standing where he had left her when Madame Joyselle came in, perfectly serene, and closed the door.

"What is the matter?" she asked calmly, sitting down and folding her hands.

"I--M. Joyselle--hurt one of my friends--he was--rude. And then----"

"_C'est ca._ And then _you_ were rude. Never mind, he will not think of it again, and neither must you."

Brigit was silent, and stood looking at le Conquerant. She _had_ been impolite, and Joyselle's discourtesy was, after all, more like a bit of schoolboy malice than the deliberate insult of a grown man. And his dignified rebuke to her had set her at once on the plane of a naughty child.

Were they both grown up, or both children? Or was he grown and she a child, or was she a grown-up and he a child? It was very puzzling and very absurd. She wanted to rage and she wanted to laugh.

She laughed. Because as she turned towards the disinterested spectator on the sofa, Joyselle came in, his face bearing such a reflection of the expression she felt to be in her own that she could not resist.

"_Bon._ It is laugh, then?" he cried, kissing her hands. "It appears Belle-Ange has a temper, too! Let us forget all about it. Felicite, my dear, bring us Hydromel, and we will drink forgetfulness." He opened the door of the cage, and William the Conqueror came mincing out, waddling on his inturned toes like some fat, velvet-clad dowager.

Hydromel is a Norman liqueur, thick and cloying. Brigit loathed it, but could not resist Joyselle, who, the parrot on his left wrist, poured the sweet stuff into little gla.s.ses and handed one to her.

"Item: forget that we both have bad tempers," he said, striking his gla.s.s against hers. "Item; remember that we are both good in our hearts; item, remember that father and daughter must be patient with each other."

As she drained her gla.s.s Theo came in and laughed as he saw what they were doing.

"A reconciliation already?" he cried. "Papa, what have you been up to?"

"We have both been correcting and being corrected. _Bon, c'est fini!_"

CHAPTER NINE

"My dear Gerald, anyone would think _I_ wanted her to do it!" Lady Kingsmead's voice was very fretful, for Carron had done nothing but talk to her about Brigit for the last fortnight, and though she knew that his old love for herself was dead and buried, yet she enjoyed having an occasional flower of speech laid on its grave.

"I really believe you are in love with her," she went on after a pause, as he did not answer.

"Bosh!"

"But it certainly looks like it. You do nothing but talk about her."