"No, he must not know. Nor Victor either, if we can help it. Though he
is very vain, and vain men always see. On the whole," she added with a
kind of gentle amusement, "you have all been absurdly blind but me. And
I did not like to warn you."
"This is--very extraordinary," began Brigit, rising. "I don't quite
see----"
But Felicite drew her down to her chair again. "That is just it, _ma
pauvre petite_. I did see. I saw his little fancy for you, too. It began
the evening of the dragon-skin frock, and it lasted, oh--about a month.
And you never noticed it, poor child. And now you are miserable about
him. I am so sorry."
There was such convincing sincerity in her every tone that Brigit could
not even pretend to be angry.
"You must think me very silly," she murmured.
But the little woman shook her head, "_Non, non_, it is not silly to
love. It is unwise, or wrong, or heavenly, or mad, but silly, _non_. And
he is very attractive, _mon homme_." This tribute she added reluctantly,
as if from a sense of fairness. "And many have loved him."
Suddenly Brigit's anger flamed up.
"And--I am so insignificant that you are not afraid of me," she cried.
"What if he had _not_ got over it? What if he loved me as much--_more_
than I love him?"
Felicite smiled serenely and sweetly.
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