She remembered his over-loud laugh and his too-ready gesture. She
smiled, however, as she told herself that he was a peasant.
As she listened, her love for music quite subordinated to her strange
interest in the mere man, Theo leant forward and whispered quietly:
"Brigit, do you really care a little for me?"
"Yes." She smiled affectionately at him, for was it not he who made her
so happy?
And then the poor girl drew a long, shuddering breath, and leant back
behind the curtain, for she had suddenly realised that it was not Theo
who made her happy. It was the fact that he was Victor Joyselle's son.
And it was the big man with the violin who--who--who made her happy.
It was a miserable end to her childish dream of felicity, for she was
brave enough to admit to herself without the least hesitation what it
was that had happened.
And when Joyselle at length stopped playing and came back to sit by her,
she smiled at him in very good imitation of her own smile of half an
hour before.
But he was not satisfied.
"You did not like it?" he asked simply.
"Of course I did--it was _splendid_."
"Yet I could not hold you," he persisted, his vanity evidently a little
hurt.
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