There were other errands to be done, but at last they reached home, and
in the passage Felicite paused and set down the basket.
"You will find my husband in his study," she said, looking earnestly at
Brigit. "Go to him, my dear, and be happy. Remember, he is nearly an old
man, and loves you like his daughter. And remember, also, that because
it is not fitting in any way, your love for him will change sooner or
later, and become that of a daughter for her father. So don't worry."
Brigit stood looking after her for a moment, and then went slowly
upstairs. Joyselle, in the crimson-velvet garment, was writing a letter
as she entered; he looked ill and miserably unhappy.
"Victor," she began without preamble, laying her arm across his
shoulders and pressing her cheek to his hair. "Will you forgive me? I--I
love you."
Then she broke down and cried in an old-fashioned and weakly feminine
way that she could not combat, although she quite realised its absolute
inappropriateness to her character.
"How could you?" he whispered, holding her close with the greatest
tenderness, the torturing formula of yesterday coming to his lips. "How
could you?"
His eyes, too, were wet, but her breakdown had given him his strength
back.
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