"Seen—?"
"That you have fallen in love with Victor. It is really too bad of him, the old rascal."
Her gentle face was so undisturbed, so calmly acceptant of the heinous fact that Brigit could do nothing but stare. "I am glad poor Théo does not suspect," went on Félicité, untying the strings of her old-fashioned bonnet, "we must not let him know, n'est ce pas?"
"I—I don't see——" stammered the girl, blankly.
"No, he must not know. Nor Victor either, if we can help it. Though he is very vain, and vain men always see. On the whole," she added with a kind of gentle amusement, "you have all been absurdly blind but me. And I did not like to warn you."
"This is—very extraordinary," began Brigit, rising. "I don't quite see——"
But Félicité drew her down to her chair again. "That is just it, ma pauvre petite. I did see. I saw his little fancy for you, too. It began the evening of the dragon-skin frock, and it lasted, oh—about a month. And you never noticed it, poor child. And now you are miserable about him. I am so sorry."
There was such convincing sincerity in her every tone that Brigit could not even pretend to be angry.
"You must think me very silly," she murmured.
But the little woman shook her head, "Non, non, it is not silly to love. It is unwise, or wrong, or heavenly, or mad, but silly, non. And he is very attractive, mon homme." This tribute she added reluctantly, as if from a sense of fairness. "And many have loved him."