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"I do not wish to wait," announced Théo, with unexpected and terrible decision. "I can see no reason for it, père. Brigit, let it be early in June." Joyselle's match fell to the floor, and his cigarette was still unlit. "I think I have been patient," pursued the young man, his voice trembling a little. "Ah, father, I love her, and I want my wife."
There was something very charming in the simplicity of Joyselle's pleasure in seeing his boyhood's friends, and something almost ludicrous in his perfectly obvious joy in their homage. Looking down at him in his oft-interrupted progress, Brigit told herself that things must turn out all right.
Yet now Joyselle's resigned attitude did not please her. "Then you don't mind my marrying another man?" she retorted quickly, instinctively using words that would hurt him. He wiped his forehead, which was covered with small drops of perspiration. "Don't mind! But, ma chérie, you must not torture me. The situation as it now is, is absolutely impossible. You don't understand.
Brigit was amused, for she saw that the Spectre, as her friends called the grey-draped peeress, had anticipated excitement and curiosity on Joyselle's part. There was music somewhere in the distance, and the air was sweet with the smell of roses from the room behind them as well as from the garden below.
Joyselle's arm jerked and the unlit cigarette flew out into the darkness. "You are right," he began abruptly, but Brigit drew nearer to him and in the darkness laid her hand on his. "He is right in one way, Beau-père" she said, grasping his hand with spasmodic strength, "and I am a brute, but I should so much rather wait a little longer. I have reasons, Théo."
Unless I might change Billy and the Farquhar girl to their table, and put them in the boudoir balcony! Billy wouldn't mind and the Farquhar girl doesn't matter; she didn't get me those tickets, anyhow." The Sparrow gave a little hop of satisfaction. "Right. That'll do famously." So the Cassowary went back to the table and laid her hand on Joyselle's sleeve.
During the last twelve weeks she had not, although seeing Joyselle's wife every day, learned to regard her as a real factor in the game.
She did not consider that breaking her word was not fair play, she had no thought of pity for Pontefract. She loved nobody, and therefore thought solely of herself. This boy was right. She would be happier with him than with poor, old, fat Ponty. So poor, old, fat Ponty went to the wall, and putting her hands into Joyselle's, she said slowly: "Very well I will. I will marry you.
Lady Brigit shrank fastidiously into her corner. Another thing to bore her. She was of those women who always hate their fellow-travellers and resent their existence. And this man was too big, there was too much fur on his coat, too much scent on his handkerchief. "Salut demeure chaste et pure," he began singing, suddenly, apparently quite unconscious of his companion's presence. "Salut demeure " It was a high baritone voice, sweet and round, and his r's were like Théo Joyselle's. Brigit smiled. Dear Théo! Her mother could be as nasty as she liked, but they would be happy in spite of her. And then, as in the beginning of the world, it was light, and the girl recognised in her suddenly silent vis-
Joyselle's magnificent eyes looked kindly but searchingly into hers. "No. Not that." Then, asking no further question, he leaned back in his place and looked out over the fields on his left. "Daughter father child old man " she told herself with set jaw, "that is what he thinks. He is eight years younger than that brute Gerald, too."
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