It was a cold night, and the roaring fire was pleasant
to hear, and in the expressive slang of the time, "things went."
Everyone was amused; for the time being, the bores had ceased from
boring, and the bored were at rest. Brigit, who loved to look into wet
and be dry, to look into cold and be warm, sat in the one plain glass
window in the place (its coloured predecessor had been broken by a
Roundhead cannon-ball and for vainglorious Family Reasons never been
replaced), so that she could look alternately into the storm and at the
comfortable, cheery scene within.
She wore white, and in her hair a tiny wreath of green enamel
bay-leaves. And to her beauty was, as the Duchess had so plainly felt,
added the great graces of good humour and simplicity.
"After all," thought the wise old lady, watching her, "all happy women
are simple."
Tommy, big with his splendid secret, roamed about the room, his hands in
his pockets, his chin poked up thoughtfully.
It was all very well to be an earl if one wanted to rule one's mother
and get one's own way generally, but when one wants to be a violinist,
then an earldom is distinctly a bore. He had never heard of a British
peer who at the same time was a great musician, but which of the two
positions precluded the other he could not decide.
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