"Lady Brigit!"
She turned, and seeing the smile of delight on the boyish face before her, smiled back. "Monsieur Joyselle!"
Théo, who was twenty-two, and who adored her, flushed to the roots of his curly hair—and who was it who decided that blushes stop there, and do not continue up over the skull, down the back and out at one's heels?
"Yes, yes," he cried, holding her hand tightly in his. "Let us speak French, I—I love to speak my own tongue to you."
He himself had a delightful little fault in his speech, being quite incapable of pronouncing the English "r," rolling it in his throat in a way that always amused Brigit.
As he talked, her smile deepened in character, and from one of mere friendly greeting became one of real affection. He was nice, this boy; she liked his honest dark eyes and the expression of his handsome young mouth.
"Tell me," she began presently, "how is your father?"
"He is well, my father, but very nervous. Poor mother!"
"Poor mother?"
"But yes. The concert is to be to-morrow, and he is always in a furious state of nerves before he plays. He has been terrific all day."