"She is
indeed. And now--Theo, call Toinon--we must go to the dining-room."
Nobody else, even Brigit, who had never beheld that cheerless apartment,
wished to leave the kitchen, but Madame Joyselle's will was in such
matters law, and the little party was soon seated round the table
upstairs. And the omelet was delicious.
* * * * *
An hour later Brigit found herself sitting in a big red-leather
armchair, in a highly modern and comfortable, if slightly gaudy
apartment--Joyselle's study. There was a small grate-fire with a red
club-fender, a red, patternless carpet, soft, well-draped curtains, and
tables covered with books and smoking materials.
There was also a baby-grand piano, covered with music, and a huge grey
parrot in a gilded and palatial cage.
It was Joyselle's translation of an English gentleman's room, even to
the engravings and etchings on the wall. One thing, however, the girl
had never before seen. One end of the room was glassed in as if in a
huge oak frame, and the wall behind it was literally covered with signed
photographs.
"Most of 'em are royalties," Joyselle explained with a certain naif
pride, "beginning with your late Queen.
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