And remembering the last days she trembled.
She knocked at his door, and a short, familiar bark answered the sound.
Papillon. But-ter-fly.
Joyselle opened the door, which had been locked, and when he saw her,
his face, already sombre, darkened ominously.
"Brigitte--what do you want?" he asked, not offering to let her in.
Behind him, on a table, she saw his violin-case--unopened, and her heart
gave a glad hope. He had not been working. He had been, she hoped,
unable to work.
"May I come in, Victor?" she asked.
Still he did not move. "Why?" he asked uncompromisingly.
"Because I have things to tell you. Don't be afraid. I am not going to
make a scene----"
He drew aside, and she went in and closed the door. Papillon sprang at
her with delight, and she laughed sadly.
"_He_ is glad to see me," she said; "aren't you, Yellow Dog?"
Joyselle shrugged his shoulders and sitting down on the sofa lit a
cigarette. "Well?" he asked after a pause.
Brigit sat down by him and took off her gloves.
"Victor--why have things--been as they have been of late?"
"You know why."
"Because the father in you is stronger than the lover?"
"I have never been your lover," he retorted harshly, hurling the words
at her as if they had been an accusation.
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