rs.
They both started, for it was the Wedding March from "Lohengrin."

Brigit's small face went white with anger. "I--am sorry," she stammered;
"it is--ghastly. It isn't Theo--it is his father. Oh, _do_ go!"

Pontefract nodded. "Yes, I'll go. And--never mind, Brigit. He doesn't
_know_, the old chap!"

He left the room hastily, and she ran upstairs, her hands clenched.

It was as she expected: Theo had left the room, and Joyselle stood alone
by the open door, his face radiant with malicious, delight. "_Parti,
hein_? I thought he'd--What is the matter?" he ended hastily, staring at
her.

She went straight to him, breathing hard, her brows nearly meeting. "How
_could_ you do such a thing? It was abominable--hideous!"

"What was abominable?"

"To play that Wedding March! Theo had told you about--about him, and you
did it to hurt him. Oh, how could _anybody_ do such a thing!"

Joyselle put his violin carefully into its case.

"You are rude, mademoiselle," he returned sternly; "very rude indeed.
But you are--my guest."

And he left the room.

Brigit's temper was very violent, but she had seen in his set face signs
of one much worse than her own, and, with the strange unexpectedness
that seemed to characterise the man, his last move was as fully that of
a gentleman as his trick with the Wedding March had been shocking.

He was her host, and--he had left her rather than forget that fact.

For the first time in her life she was utterly at a loss. What should
she do?

She was still standing where he had left her when Madame Joyselle came
in, perfectly serene, and closed the door.

"What is the matter?" she asked calmly, sitting down and folding her
hands.

"I--M. Joyselle--hurt one of my friends--he was--rude. And then----"

"_C'est ca._ And then _you_ were rude. Never mind, he will not think of
it again, and neither must you."

Brigit was silent, and stood looking at le Conquerant. She _had_ been
impolite, and Joyselle's discourtesy was, after all, more like a bit of
schoolboy malice than the deliberate insult of a grown man. And his
dignified rebuke to her had set her at once on the plane of a naughty
child.

Were they both grown up, or both children? Or was he grown and she a
child, or was she a grown-up and he a child? It was very puzzling and
very absurd. She wanted to rage and she wanted to laugh.

She laughed. Because as she turned towards the disinterested spectator
on the sofa, Joyselle came in,