es,
in evening dress, once even in the fur-lined coat. Yet it seemed to her,
as she watched and listened now, in the great hall of the house of her
fathers, that she had never heard quite this same man play.

At home he had been "Beau-papa," noisy and demonstrative, or solemn with
artistic responsibility and reverence, but always the oldish man playing
to his family. Now, in some way, he was metamorphosed. He was now
"Joyselle"; he was, as she listened and watched, an unusually handsome,
not yet middle-aged gentleman, playing the violin as an artist, but
indisputably a gentleman.

She recalled, with a shudder, his awful lack of taste displayed the day
Pontefract called; she remembered her amusement on his insisting on
wearing a pale blue satin tie one day when he was lunching at a club to
meet a great pianist, and Theo's subsequent search among his belongings
for other similar horrors.

She remembered his over-loud laugh and his too-ready gesture. She
smiled, however, as she told herself that he was a peasant.

As she listened, her love for music quite subordinated to her strange
interest in the mere man, Theo leant forward and whispered quietly:
"Brigit, do you really care a little for me?"

"Yes." She smiled affectionately at him, for was it not he who made her
so happy?

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 Theo
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.

It was a miserable end to her childish dream of felicity, for she was
brave enough to admit to herself without the least hesitation what it
was that had happened.

And when Joyselle at length stopped playing and came back to sit by her,
she smiled at him in very good imitation of her own smile of half an
hour before.

But he was not satisfied.

"You did not like it?" he asked simply.

"Of course I did--it was _splendid_."

"Yet I could not hold you," he persisted, his vanity evidently a little
hurt. He could not hold her!

"Didn't we like it, Theo?" she urged, turning to the young man.

"To tell the truth, I didn't hear a note," he admitted, not in the least
shamefacedly. "I was looking at you."

"Lucky young beggar," laughed Joyselle, "small wonder! You two make a
very pleasant picture," he added, "and in a year or two----"

"Father," protested Theo,