opians in white tunics. An ancient
table with faded gilding just visible on the claw feet that looked out
from under its petticoat of finest damask; and on it priceless gold and
silver bowls and salvers of all shapes, full of the most marvellous
fruits from all countries, some of which fruits were never seen
elsewhere in England. All dead and gone to dust years ago, host and
guest and grinning little Ethiopians. Joyselle had told Brigit this
story, and now as she stood watching him vent his wrath and anguish on
his faithful Amati, a kind of vision came to her; and she seemed to see
the room as it used to be--vaguely, the big table with six or eight men
sitting around it drinking wine, and, more distinctly, the heaped-up
bowls and plates of fruit----

Half hypnotised she stood there, her hands pressed to her ears until,
with a final excruciating dig into the strings, he dropped his left arm
and turned.

For a moment he, in his square of light, did not see her in the dusk
under the gallery. Then he took a step forward, and with a low cry
caught her in his arms and crushed her and the violin painfully to his
breast.

"_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu_," he repeated over and over, kissing her roughly,
"you have come. Then you know, ma Brigitte, you know!"

"Yes, I know," she admitted sullenly. "Let me go, Victor, you--you hurt
me."

He dropped his arms and she withdrew a few steps. He was very pale and
his hair was ruffled.

"You--it was good of you to come," he said after a pause. "Then, you are
not angry?"

"No."

"Brigit--_je t'aime, je t'aime_. I am infamous, I am a monster, a father
to be execrated by all honest men and women, but--I love you!"

He laid the violin down in a chair and came to her. "_Et toi?_" he asked
hoarsely.

The moment had come when she _must_ think, she told herself, but her
brain refused to work. The only thing that mattered was that he should
stay. What must she say, truth or lie, that would inspire that
necessity?

She stared at him blankly, and then, before she could speak, he knelt
at her feet and pressed a fold of her dress to his face.

"Victor," she said slowly, trembling so she could hardly stand, "you
will not--leave me?"

And Joyselle caught her up off the floor and held her as if she had been
a baby.

"_Dieu merci_," he cried. "_Dieu merci._"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

An hour later Brigit Mead came quietly down the now nearly dark stairs
of the old house, smiling faintly to