When Brigit Mead came in that afternoon she kissed Madame Joyselle as
usual, and then taking off her hat and coat, drew up another
stiff-backed chair and sat down.
"How are you, _petite mere_?" she asked gently, in French.
"I am well, as I always am, thank God. And you? And Tommy?"
"Tommy has a bad throat, but it is nothing. He sent his love. I am very
fit."
Madame Joyselle cut her cotton, scrutinised her work closely, and laid
the sock down and took up another.
"Such a man for wearing out socks. And always the heels," she remarked.
"It would try the patience of anyone!"
"Does it try even yours?" asked Brigit.
The little woman looked up, her shrewd black eyes twinkling under their
well-defined brows. "You have observed, then, that I am patient? But
yes, my dear, God help the wife of an artist if she is not! He is
terrible, my man, at times, but luckily I was born long-suffering. He
has, too, a way of wrenching at button-holes in collars that tears them
to bits, and desolates me."
"But----" began the girl, and then stopped.
All things considered, there was remarkably little constraint in her
feelings for this good woman, but somehow at that moment she wished to
change the subject.
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