She wore white, and in her hair a tiny wreath of green enamel
bay-leaves. And to her beauty was, as the Duchess had so plainly felt,
added the great graces of good humour and simplicity.

"After all," thought the wise old lady, watching her, "all happy women
are simple."

Tommy, big with his splendid secret, roamed about the room, his hands in
his pockets, his chin poked up thoughtfully.

It was all very well to be an earl if one wanted to rule one's mother
and get one's own way generally, but when one wants to be a violinist,
then an earldom is distinctly a bore. He had never heard of a British
peer who at the same time was a great musician, but which of the two
positions precluded the other he could not decide.

He wished, naturally, to begin work at once. He would have to have a
serious talk with his mother to-night. If these people ever went to bed!

Bicky looked heavenly to-night. My word! what a sister for any fellow to
have!

And Joyselle--he was far too great a person to be "Mistered." Fancy Mr.
Beethoven, or Mr. Paderewski! Joyselle the Great and Glorious would help
him. The mater appeared to like him. It was strange, for she had been in
a terrible rage the first day or two--but she certainly was as pleased
as Punch now.

Joyselle had crossed the room and was sitting by Bicky now. By Jove, he
was patting her hand! And before everybody!

Suddenly he rose, she smiled up into his dark face, and he called Tommy.

"Tommy, will you go to my room and bring me my Amati?"

Why Tommy did not then and there burst with joy, that enraptured little
boy never knew. When he put the violin into the master's hand the child
trembled so that the master saw it. "When I have played one thing, you
are to go to bed," he said gravely. "You are tired."

And the spoiled and headstrong Tommy, he whose word was law to his
mother and many other people, nodded obediently. "I will play again for
you alone to-morrow," added Joyselle.

Then he went and stood near the fire, the red light flashing on him, and
played.

The first thing, plainly for Tommy, was a Norman cradle-song, very slow
and monotonous, and full of strange harmonies. When it was over, Tommy
quietly withdrew. To-morrow was to be his day.

Brigit Mead had stayed at the house in Golden Square for a full week,
and during that week she had heard her future father-in-law play a dozen
times or more.

He had played in the crimson velvet dressing-gown, in morning cloth