"I don't know, but something is. Very. It's—Théo!"
She started. "Théo? He isn't ill, is he?"
"No, no. He's downstairs; wants to see you. There's been some kind of a row in Golden Square. Petite mère and the Master have been talking for an hour, as hard as ever they can talk, and Théo is upset, and the Master has gone off in a tearing rage—do go down and find out, Brigit, and then come back and tell me."
Lord Kingsmead's pristine curiosity regarding everything with which he came into contact had by no means suffered eclipse since he had been living in London.
Devoted as he was to Joyselle and to his music, the little boy's passion for knowledge of all kinds seemed to increase, and there was in his small, pale, pointed face a strained, overkeen look that troubled his sister at times. Now, however, she had no leisure to think of it, and hurried downstairs to the drawing-room, where she found Théo walking restlessly up and down.
"Brigit," he burst out abruptly, as she came in, "when will you marry me?"
"Good gracious, Théo—what—what has put that into your head?" she parried ineffectively, sitting down, as he did not offer to give her any further greeting.
"Into my head? Has it ever been out of it? I am sorry to have startled you, dear," he continued, more gently, sitting down by her and taking her hands in his, "but surely I have been patient. And—I am tired of waiting."
She sat with bent head, looking at their joined hands. His hands were smaller and whiter than his father's, but very like them in shape. If they had been Joyselle's! If he had been able to come to her with that question: "When will you marry me?"
"You are very good," she said slowly, after a long pause.