"I beg your pardon for having been—rude," she said to him sulkily, holding out her hand, which was as cold as ice.
"But it is I," he murmured, touching his lips to her fingers and feeling her quiver as he did so. "It is that we both have what you English call bad tempers, pas?"
"You must have been very bad this time, papa," commented Théo, closing the cage door on le Conquérant and joining them. "Brigit is very angry. Look at her!"
"I am not angry, Théo. But—quarrelling is disgusting."
Why she had stayed the girl hardly knew. She had not forgiven Joyselle, and her apology was a mere concession to the feelings of Félicité and Théo.
Joyselle had hurt her, but her treatment of him had so wounded herself that she could not forgive him. All of which is quite illogical and quite feminine.
"I will go away—anywhere—to-morrow," she told herself as she ate her supper. "Théo will not know why, and Félicité will not tell. This sort of thing cannot go on. This is the fifth row in the last month. We are both too pig-headed. It's no use trying to keep the peace. I suppose if I were his mistress he would be easier to manage—or I should. The truth is, we are both struggling for supremacy, and we can neither of us drive the other."
Joyselle, with a great effort, chattered gaily throughout the meal. His thoughts, too, were in a turmoil, for he knew that her apology had been offered merely on Théo's account, and he also knew that something was going to happen.
Félicité, sincerely sorry for Brigit and anxious anent Théo, talked more than usual, so that the uncongenial gathering was more voluble and noisy than usual.
At its close Félicité called her son to her room under some pretext or other, and Joyselle and Brigit went alone to his study. He closed the door very quietly, and then turning to her, caught her hands threateningly.