As they reached the door the
opening bar of Mendelssohn's Wedding March rang out, played with a
mastery of the pianola that, in that house, only Kingsmead was capable
of.
On entering, Brigit's face was scarlet. She knew that her brother was
welcoming the wrong bridegroom. And it suddenly occurred to her that it
was awkward to be engaged to two men at once.
"I say----" began Tommy as he saw Joyselle, and she interrupted him
hastily. "Play something of Sinding's, dear," she said, and the boy
complied. But his eye was horribly knowing, and hard to bear.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lady Brigit leaned back in her corner and surveyed the otherwise empty
compartment with a sigh of relief. She knew that her face still bore
signs of the anger roused by her mother in their recent interview, and
she felt the necessity of looking as savage as she felt.
And she felt very savage indeed. If an American Indian--an idealised,
poeticised American Indian--could be invested with the beauty that does
not belong to the red races and yet which, if perfected on the lines of
beauty suggested by some of the nobler specimens of the nobler tribes,
she might look like Brigit Mead. The girl had a clean-cutness of
feature, a thin compactness of build, a stag-like carriage of her small
head that, together with her almost bronze skin and coal-black hair,
gave her an air remarkably and arrestingly un-English.
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