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Updated: May 17, 2025
My mother, with whom I have been on fairly decent terms since Tommy has been ill, is hopeless. Gerald Carron shot himself to-day, and mother, just, I honestly believe, to indulge her own taste for sentimental scenes, turned on me about him and pretended to believe a story he told her just before I left Pont Street that I was Joyselle's mistress, in fact.
Number 57 Golden Square was dark when Joyselle's cab stopped in front of it, and he, after tenderly depositing his violin-case under the little portico, assisted Brigit to alight. "They are, of course, in the kitchen," he remarked as he paid the cabby. "Come, ma belle."
This was the first time that Brigit had realised that she had a real personality, and the girl wondered at her own blindness, for every line in Madame Joyselle's face meant, she now saw, an individuality stronger rather than weaker than the average woman's, even in these days of clamorous individualism.
The priest droned on; a baby cried, causing the bridegroom to dart a furious glance in its direction; one of the country cousins blew his nose with simple-hearted zest; the old couple who had been kneeling were assisted to their feet. "In nomine Patris, et Filii " Brigit bowed her head with the rest, and then as she raised it, met Joyselle's miserable eyes; miserable, accusing, despairing eyes.
And I must write Ponty before we tell." Her practical tone struck chill on Joyselle's glowing young ear, but he followed her obediently to the house. As they reached the door the opening bar of Mendelssohn's Wedding March rang out, played with a mastery of the pianola that, in that house, only Kingsmead was capable of. On entering, Brigit's face was scarlet.
Joyselle's party arrived at Falaise the next evening, and leaving Brigit at the inn in the Rue d'Argentin, the others drove on to old M. Joyselle's house in the Rue Victor Hugo.
"And if he fell in love with me," she told herself as the maid clasped her pearls round her neck, "there would be no hope for any of us." It is remarkable that the possibility of Joyselle's loving her only added to her misery, for most women in like cases would have clutched at the bare chance of such a contingency in rapturous disregard of all consequences.
Has it ever been out of it? I am sorry to have startled you, dear," he continued, more gently, sitting down by her and taking her hands in his, "but surely I have been patient. And I am tired of waiting." She sat with bent head, looking at their joined hands. His hands were smaller and whiter than his father's, but very like them in shape. If they had been Joyselle's!
And then the poor girl drew a long, shuddering breath, and leant back behind the curtain, for she had suddenly realised that it was not Théo who made her happy. It was the fact that he was Victor Joyselle's son. And it was the big man with the violin who who who made her happy.
Théo nodded in silence and Brigit answered simply "Yes." The coin shot from the violinist's thumb-nail, flew up into the air and was caught on his palm, his left hand covering it. "Heads, then, a June wedding. Tails, then mees has her way, and the event is put off till autumn? Right?" "Yes." Théo had turned away, and Brigit was free to look full into Joyselle's face.
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