"Yes. In the beginning—no. Then I was jealous, and angry. But a jealous woman is always ridiculous, my child, and men are so vain that the implied homage upsets them. Many a woman has lost a man's love through showing jealousy. So—in time I got used to it, and tout passe," she continued comfortably.
"And you wouldn't mind now, if——" asked Brigit, her elbows on her knees, her chin on her hands.
Madame Joyselle laughed. "Wouldn't mind? Oh, ma chère! Just before you came, he had a very bad turn—it was an Italian actress—a pantomimiste, with the most beautiful arms in the world, and the face of a vicious little boy. And he? Épaté. His ties wouldn't tie, he got new shoes—fresh gloves every time he went to see her—scent, a new kind, very expensive—he sent her flowers by the cartload, and went every evening to see her act. Every day little mauve letters and wires from her (he always forgot to burn them, and I was afraid Toinon might see them), etc., etc., etc."
"And how did it end?" asked Brigit, her throat dry and hot. She hated the pantomimiste.
"End? My faith, my dear, it is of a simplicity, the end. You came."
"I came——"
"Yes. And he was so delighted with his new—daughter—that he promptly forgot his—love."
"But what did she do?"
"She made a fool of herself, poor thing; wrote, and telegraphed, and threatened to kill herself. So we sent Théo to see her, and she quieted down."
Brigit burst out laughing. "Sent Théo?"