Lord Oliver Maytopp, a cherished clown in that section of society in which the Newlyns had their being, was making believe to cry, his large mouth opened grotesquely, his fists digging into his eyes.
"I d—don't want to sit at the table next Meg's," he sobbed, "when I tell funny stories she always—makes faces at me. I want to go home to Nursey."
Brigit moved away, her upper lip raised disdainfully. How odious they all were!
And how detestable the whole house with its health of art-treasures, selected by an artist friend of Newlyn's.
"Nouveau-riche?" asked Joyselle, joining her.
"No. That is, they are well-born, but they are nouveau as regards money. Her father made a lucky speculation in electric-lighting, I think it was, after she was married. They haven't got used to their money yet. So," she added, as they stepped out on to one of the many balconies with which the house was ornamented, "you don't object to sitting at my table?"
"Brigitte!"
His was of the type of face that is ennobled by any strong passion, and he looked very splendid as he towered above her, white and shaken.
"You will not leave me?" she asked, again possessed by the fear that had tormented her from the moment when he had dropped his violin the evening of the golden frock.
"Brigitte," he returned, leaning on the rail and presenting a non-committal back to anyone who might chance to join them, "let us not talk of that yet. I love you, and you are mine, and I am yours, whatever happens."