mbled at the thought. But after dinner, when he had at
last been able to fly to the drawing-room, the Duchess had a beautiful
word to say to him. "Mr. Joyselle," the old woman began abruptly,
beckoning to him, "come here for a second, I want to congratulate you."

"Thank you, Duchess. I--I am indeed to be congratulated, for she is the
most perfect----"

"Ta, ta, ta, I don't mean that at all! I mean I want to congratulate you
on what you have been able to do for her in so short a time."

"I? To do for her?" He was honestly puzzled.

"Yes, you. Do you suppose she has always been what she is now? Not a bit
of it. The last time I saw Brigit Mead--it was at Ascot--she was a very
good-looking, of course--oh, unbelievably beautiful, if you prefer it,
but an ill-tempered, black-faced young minx, who should have been put on
bread and water for a month to correct her manner."

"Her manners!" shouted Theo, unable to believe his ears.

"No. Her manners were always all right, but her manner was atrocious.
And you have made her most delightful, as well as ten times lovelier
than I would have thought possible. There, now, you may go to her." And
Theo wasted no time.

"Love is a strange thing, isn't it?" went on the old woman to her
neighbour, without looking to see who he was, for it is a remark that
may safely be addressed to anybody.

"It is a damnable thing," growled the afflicted Carron, for it was he
who chanced, for his sins, to have paused just then under the pretence
of lighting a cigarette.

"Exactly," assented the Duchess briskly. "It has led you an awful life,
Gerald, hasn't it?"

"The absurdity of calling that boy's feelings for Brigit by the same
word that must express----"

"Yours for her mother, eh? Go away, you immoral thing!"

CHAPTER TWELVE

There was to be no Bridge that evening, and by unspoken consent everyone
sat in the hall. It was a cold night, and the roaring fire was pleasant
to hear, and in the expressive slang of the time, "things went."

Everyone was amused; for the time being, the bores had ceased from
boring, and the bored were at rest. Brigit, who loved to look into wet
and be dry, to look into cold and be warm, sat in the one plain glass
window in the place (its coloured predecessor had been broken by a
Roundhead cannon-ball and for vainglorious Family Reasons never been
replaced), so that she could look alternately into the storm and at the
comfortable, cheery scene within.