Then--marry me instead. I am not so
rich, but I am rich. And, ah, I love you--_je t'aime_."
Poor Pontefract, leaning back in his big Mercedes trying to realise his
bliss, was jilted before Brigit had spoken a word. Like a flash, his
image seemed to stand before her, beside the delightful boy-man whose
youth and niceness pleaded so strongly to her. She did not consider that
breaking her word was not fair play, she had no thought of pity for
Pontefract. She loved nobody, and therefore thought solely of herself.
This boy was right. She would be happier with him than with poor, old,
fat Ponty. So poor, old, fat Ponty went to the wall, and putting her
hands into Joyselle's, she said slowly:
"Very well--I will. I will marry you. Only--you must know that I am an
odious person, selfish and moody, and----"
But she could not finish her sentence, because Joyselle had her in his
arms and was kissing her.
"I will be your servant and your slave," he told her, with very bad
judgment but much sincerity. "I will serve you on my knees."
"Now you must--buck up--and not let them see to-night. Mother will be
cross at first. And--I must write Ponty before we tell."
Her practical tone struck chill on Joyselle's glowing young ear, but he
followed her obediently to the house.
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