"Franska? Yes."
"Well? And the pantomimiste, and Miss Belton, and Lady Paula——"
Joyselle started in the act of shaking scent on his handkerchief. "Of course I remember them. But what have they to do with Brigitte?"
"Only this, Victor. The poor child is in love with you, vieux vaurien! And that is why she is so savage."
She sat quite still, looking up at him with an indulgent smile, into which the maternal element largely entered. He was a fatal person, this great fiddler of hers; but to her he was also a child to be cared for, and a not quite normal being, to whose absent mind much must be explained.
Her charming face, almost old in spite of its fresh colour, was touched, as she watched his back, with a flicker of kindly mischief.
"And to think that you did not know, blind one," she teased.
"It—it is your imagination," he returned with a slight stammer, turning and facing her.
"No, no. Also I did not imagine that at first you, too, were a little épris. It was most natural, my dear. She is so very beautiful. I was glad when it passed. It was the day of the long discussion about the wedding—the day of the letter from your mother—do you remember? When you rushed away like a whirlwind?"
"Yes—I remember."