"_Vous etes roublée, ma fille_," said Joyselle, suddenly taking one of
her hands in his befurred ones; "what has happened? Can you not think of
me as your old papa, and tell me?"
She started, half-frightened, half angry. "I am not troubled, M.
Joyselle," she returned, in French. "I--have a headache, that is all."
Oh, time-honoured evasion; oh, classic lie, thou who hast served,
surely, since Eve's day, used without doubt by Helen of Troy, Cleopatra
and all the other unsaintly women, ancient and modern, whose stories are
so much more entertaining than those of the unco' guid--oh, Splendid
Mendax, where should we all be without you?
"A headache?" Joyselle's magnificent eyes looked kindly but searchingly
into hers. "No. Not that." Then, asking no further question, he leaned
back in his place and looked out over the fields on his left.
"Daughter--father--child--old man----" she told herself with set jaw,
"that is what he thinks. He is eight years younger than that brute
Gerald, too."
The road climbed dully up for half an hour, and then with a quick turn
stretched out over splendid downs, beyond which lay a narrow glittering
strip of grey sea. "There is the sea," announced Brigit, perfunctorily.
It was not intrinsically beautiful, the scene, but as some chord in the
human breast almost invariably vibrates in response to a view of salt
water, this point was considered, at Kingsmead, to be a particularly
important one, and as the motor flew on Brigit Mead wondered how many
hundred times she had brought people there with the same curt
introduction, "There is the sea."
Théo, perfectly happy, turned occasionally to look at the other two, but
spoke little. It filled him with joy to see his beloved and his father
together, and his engagement was still so young that he had not got used
to it, and loved to think about it.
Joyselle, too, was unusually silent for a long time. Then at last he
turned to Brigit, his face grave as she had hitherto seen it only when
he was playing.
"I will not intrude again, Brigitte," he said, his deep voice very
gentle; "but when--if--you ever care to come to me for help or
advice--of any kind, I shall always be at your service."
"Thank you," she said, and could say no more, for fear of breaking
down. Then her sense of humour, never very keen, did for once come to
the rescue, and in an absurd mental flash-light she pictured his face if
she should suddenly put her head down on his knees and wail out the
truth: "Yes, dear Beau-papa, advise and help me, for I am to be your
daughter, my children are to be your grandchildren, and--I love you!"
Something in her face hurt him, and for the rest of the drive he quite
simply and frankly sulked.