"No, my dear, I am not angry. I am sad, because I love you—as yet—far more than I should, but—from this moment on I shall bend all my strength to the conquering of that love. You must help me. You will know how, for women always know. Now—will you shake hands with me and bid God bless me? It is to be a hard struggle for me, but I will win, for my will is strong, and the cause is good—Is that you, Théo?"
"Yes, father." Théo was trying the door. "Anything wrong?" he added.
Joyselle turned the key. "No," he said quietly as his son entered, "but we were tired of the good company. I will go now, my dear. Stay and talk to your fiancée."
CHAPTER NINE
An hour later Brigit slowly mounted the stairs at the inn. She was desperately tired, and as unhappy as she was tired. Joyselle's attitude, although she was bound in common justice to acknowledge its correctness, hurt her to an almost incredible degree. Nothing had ever so wounded her, and she felt the longing common to reserved people to hide her pain from everybody.
So she had escaped from the Rue Victor Hugo under pretext of a headache, and, bidding Félicité and Théo good-night, hastened back here, not allowing the young man to accompany her, as he desired.
"I am very seedy," she told him, "and my head aches; I shall be better alone."
So Théo, with the biddableness that was an integral and to her rather annoying quality of his character, had said no more, and returned to the other guests. The gaily attired chambermaid, bearing a small jug destined to strike dismay to some British admirers of the Conqueror, met the girl on the stairs.
"Bon soir, mademoiselle," she said; "there's a telegram for you in your salon."