More than one passerby turned to stare at the beautiful girl with the weary eyes and her humble companion as they made their way towards Rupert Street. With the violently sudden change of mood that was part of her character, Brigit's spirits had gone up. She would be kind to Joyselle; that would be being kind to herself, and therefore she would be happy. In an hour they would be at home and she would see him. A great longing to feel his strong arms round her came to her, and her face flushed as she decided to go to him frankly and ask to be taken back.
"It is a beautiful day," she said softly.
Félicité smiled up at her.
"Yes. And it is good to begin a day by going to Mass. It clears one's mind of yesterday, and to-day is—ours, Brigitte."
For all her native shrewdness, it would not at all have surprised Félicité if Brigit had suddenly become dévote, and even now as she watched the girl's radiant face it seemed to the Norman that the Mass had helped even more than she had ventured to hope. "She is going to try to fight it down," she thought gratefully, "and that is all that is necessary."
M. Bourbon, charcutier, in Rupert Street, has a beautiful shop full of wonderful things. Félicité bought a pound of galantine de volaille truffée, for which she paid two-and-six, and for which in Piccadilly she would have paid five shillings; she bought half a pound of jellied eel; she bought Pont l'Évêque cheese; flat little Parisian sausages; she bought a glass jar of preserved pears, brown with cinnamon.
Then they made their way to the Ile de Java, where they acquired a large tin of coffee, on to the Boucherie Française, where Félicité had a long discussion with M. Perigot lui-même, whom she insisted on seeing, to the disgust of the young man in attendance, who wished to look at Brigit, and whom fate assigned to an ancient dame from Brewer Street.
There were other errands to be done, but at last they reached home, and in the passage Félicité paused and set down the basket.
"You will find my husband in his study," she said, looking earnestly at Brigit. "Go to him, my dear, and be happy. Remember, he is nearly an old man, and loves you like his daughter. And remember, also, that because it is not fitting in any way, your love for him will change sooner or later, and become that of a daughter for her father. So don't worry."
Brigit stood looking after her for a moment, and then went slowly upstairs. Joyselle, in the crimson-velvet garment, was writing a letter as she entered; he looked ill and miserably unhappy.