"Theo is at home--he went to tell his mother," Joyselle said, nearly
braining an old lady with his violin-case as he swung round to speak.
"And they will be sitting by the fire, and I--who was going to spend the
night at the Duke of Cumberland's--will appear, and after we have
embraced, hey, presto--I produce you--Diana--his _adoree_--my daughter."
The old lady, who was engaged to nobody (and who, what was much worse,
never had been), resented his loud voice and his way of handling his
violin-case as if it had been a baby. "Sir," she said, "you are crowding
me."
"_Sacre nom d'une pipe_--I beg your pardon, madame, but you must not
push that box. You must not _touch_ it," he returned, all his smiles
gone and a ferocious frown joining his big black eyebrows. "It contains
my violin, madame, my Amati!"
Brigit, convulsed with laughter, laid her hand on his arm as if she had
known him for years, and he became like a lamb at her touch.
"I beg your pardon, madame," he added, smiling angelically (and an
angelic smile on a dark, middle-aged face is a very winning thing), "I
will put it over here."
Then, his beloved fiddle safe from profane touch, he again turned to
Brigit.
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