And
though red, a little puffy, and watery as to eye, the man looked what he
was, an English gentleman. Brigit felt as though she had returned to an
uncongenial home after a tour into some strange, delightful country.
"I--I owe you an apology, I suppose," she said, so simply that he
stared.
"No, you don't, Lady Brigit. You wrote me a--a very kind note. But I
wanted to ask you to reconsider. I--I am unhappy."
There was a short pause, during which he looked at her unfalteringly,
and then he went on with a certain dignity: "I have--drunk too much of
late years, I know, but--I will never do so again. And I think I could
make you happy."
"Did mother send you here?" asked the girl suddenly.
"No; I telephoned her this morning for your address. She would be
glad--if you could make up your mind."
"I have made up my mind, Lord Pontefract. I am going to marry Theo
Joyselle. And--I think I am going to be happy. I--like them all very
much. And," holding out her hand, "I am _very_ sorry to have hurt you."
As she spoke the sound of music--violin music--came down the stairs.
They both started, for it was the Wedding March from "Lohengrin."
Brigit's small face went white with anger.
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