"No, ma chère, positively only eighteen fifty, and as good as new! I always liked plush, too——"
Brigit listened absently. What could be the matter with Victor? And why had he not come to her for only one minute before the long ordeal of the dinner began?
Then the door opened and Théo, beaming with a sense of duty artistically fulfilled, came in. "They are all as happy as possible," he laughed; "the pot au feu is a thing of the past, and they are beginning on the veal. Come, my Brigit, you must be hungry."
Without answering, she accompanied him downstairs, and they threaded their way to the arbour.
"You are to sit here, Brigit, between grandfather and me," explained Théo, stopping opposite his father, who was listening to something Madame Guillaume was telling him.
Grandfather Joyselle, whose impish spirit had subsided, was busy with some minced veal, and shot a rather grudging look at his new neighbour. "Don't touch my glass, will you?" he said, "It's got flies in it, and I love to see 'em drown."
Théo laughed. "Some wine, grand-mère?"
The old woman shook her head. "No, thank you," she answered civilly. "I will teach you dominoes, mademoiselle."
Brigit thanked her and began her dinner.
"Listen to Jacques tell about how he converted a retrograde priest back to holiness by his great eloquence," laughed Antoine Joyselle, who was an old and soured edition of his famous brother. "Gascon!"