Filled by the relentless spirit of coquetry that had suddenly awakened
in her, Brigit Mead danced about the great white kitchen, teasing
Joyselle, making love to his wife, laughing openly at Theo's admiration.
She, always so silent, chattered like a magpie; she, the uninterested,
flushed with intoxicating nonsense; the three people before her were her
audience, and she played to them individually, a different _role_ for
each; they were her slaves, and she piped her magic music to them until
they were literally dazed. Then, suddenly, she whisked off her blue
apron and unpinned the dragon's tail.
"The omelet was good," she said, "but it is eaten. And it is to-morrow
morning and the motor will be frozen. Come, _mon maitre_, play one
beautiful thing to me before I fly away from you--something very
beautiful that I may dream of it."
And he played to her as she had never heard him. If the omelet had been
a magic wine, he could not have been more inspired!
His face took on the look it usually wore while he played, and solemnly
and reverently he stood, his eyes half shut, him mouth set in noble
lines. He had forgotten Brigit, but sub-consciously he was playing for
her, and she knew it, and appreciated the tribute, which was all the
greater because offered without intent.
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