Poor Pontefract seemed rather piteous to her as he was discussed, and her note had been curt and unsympathetic.
Théo looked up from his work of filling his pipe.
"I don't know. I should do as papa says."
"No. I must see him. I shall be back in a minute."
She ran downstairs almost into Pontefract's arms, for he had been left in the passage by the horrified Toinon.
"Oh—sorry!" she exclaimed. "Come in here, will you?" "Here" was the unused "salon" of the house, and in its austere ugliness would have attracted the girl's attention at any other time. But she had now before her something she had never seen, a perfectly sober Pontefract. And though red, a little puffy, and watery as to eye, the man looked what he was, an English gentleman. Brigit felt as though she had returned to an uncongenial home after a tour into some strange, delightful country.
"I—I owe you an apology, I suppose," she said, so simply that he stared.
"No, you don't, Lady Brigit. You wrote me a—a very kind note. But I wanted to ask you to reconsider. I—I am unhappy."
There was a short pause, during which he looked at her unfalteringly, and then he went on with a certain dignity: "I have—drunk too much of late years, I know, but—I will never do so again. And I think I could make you happy."
"Did mother send you here?" asked the girl suddenly.