Why should not the old beau-papa visit
his most beautiful while she breakfasts? You are a goose, Felicite!"
Brigit, vastly amused by their discussing her as if she were not
present, gave a bit of roll to the dog.
"A quaint little dog," she observed to them both.
Joyselle laughed. "Yes, yes, _il est bien drole, ce pauvre_.
But-ter-fly. And the name, too, _hein_? Some day I will tell you the
story of why I have had nine dogs all named 'But-ter-fly.' There is so
much to tell you, so much."
He talked on, very rapidly, changing subjects with the rapidity of a
child, using his square brown hands in vivid gesture, marching about the
room, teasing the dog who, since his master had entered, had had eyes
and ears for none but him.
"The concert, you know, yesterday, was a grand success. All the papers
are full of it. Many play the violin to-day, you see, but there is only
one Joyselle."
"There is also a Kubelik," suggested Brigit slily, to see what he would
answer.
"My dear, yes; there is Kubelik, and there is Joachim still, thank God.
_Chacun dans son genre._ But Kubelik is a boy, and he has 'violin
hands'--fingers a _kilometre_ long. Look at my hands, and you will see
why I am not his equal in execution.
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