Joyselle stared at her, his eyes like two lamps. Then rushing at her, he
took her hands in his and bent over her. "Good God! Good God!" he cried
rapidly in French, "_you_ are Lady Brigit Mead? You--you Diana--you
_splendeur de femme_? But I dream--I dream!"
"Indeed, no, I am Brigit Mead, M. Joyselle,"--she was laughing, laughing
with delightful amusement. He was too delicious! Then she added hastily,
"You are crushing my hands!"
Sitting down by her, he patted her reddened fingers tenderly. "_Chère
enfant, chère enfant_, forgive an old papa--_qui t'a fait bobo_--and you
are actually going to marry my Théo?"
"I am."
"Then," with a solemnity that was as overwhelming as his joy, he
returned, bowing his head as if in church, "_il a une sacrée chance_. He
is--the luckiest boy in the world."
Brigit had forgotten what boredom meant. This spontaneous, warm-hearted
person with--oh, horror,--a white satin tie, and a low, turned-down
collar, filled her with the gentlest and most affectionate amusement.
And as he was to be her father-in-law, why not enjoy him? "It is kind
of you to be so pleased," she said, "it is very interesting, our meeting
like this----"
"Interesting! It is--romance, my dear, romance, of the most unusual. And
you are so beautiful that I cannot look away from you. He told me you
were beautiful--yes--but I had pictured to myself a pink and white miss
with a head as big as a pumpkin--and, just Heaven--a 'drawing-room
voice.' Tell me, oh, tell me, _fille adorée_, that you do not sing!"
His anxiety was perfectly sincere, and she hastened to reassure him.
"Indeed, I do not."
"Nor play--not even 'simple little things,' and 'coon-songs'?"
"Nothing."
"God be praised!" he returned with a sort of whimsical reverence, in
French. "Then you are perfect."
"Indeed I am not. Oh, I _really_ am not!" Before she knew what he was
about to do, he had kissed her forehead, and then, as the train stopped,
he rushed at the window.
"But where are you going?" he cried, so rapidly that she hardly
understood him. "Why are you--why are we both--going away from London?
We must go _home_--to my house--to my wife."
"I am going to make a visit----"
"_Mais non, mais non, mais non_--come, there is a train going to
London--hurry, we will go back. You will telegraph your friends. This
evening--the betrothal evening, you must spend with us. Come, hurry, or
we shall be too late."
"But I cannot, it is impossible," she protested weakly, as, he took her
dressing-case and umbrella from the seat, after scrambling into his
furry coat. "My friend is expecting me!"
"Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta! Come, _ma fille, bella signorina_, the train is
just there--I will telegraph your friend. Let me help you, _comme ça, ça
y est_!"
And almost before she knew what had happened, they were in the other
train speeding back to town.
"Théo is at home--he went to tell his mother," Joyselle said, nearly
braining an old lady with his violin-case as he swung round to speak.
"And they will be sitting by the fire, and I--who was going to spend the
night at the Duke of Cumberland's--will appear, and after we have
embraced, hey, presto--I produce you--Diana--his _adorée_--my daughter."
The old lady, who was engaged to nobody (and who, what was much worse,
never had been), resented his loud voice and his way of handling his
violin-case as if it had been a baby. "Sir," she said, "you are crowding
me."
"_Sacré nom d'une pipe_--I beg your pardon, madame, but you must not
push that box. You must not _touch_ it," he returned, all his smiles
gone and a ferocious frown joining his big black eyebrows. "It contains
my violin, madame, my Amati!"
Brigit, convulsed with laughter, laid her hand on his arm as if she had
known him for years, and he became like a lamb at her touch.
"I beg your pardon, madame," he added, smiling angelically (and an
angelic smile on a dark, middle-aged face is a very winning thing), "I
will put it over here."
Then, his beloved fiddle safe from profane touch, he again turned to
Brigit.