"No; I telephoned her this morning for your address. She would be glad—if you could make up your mind."
"I have made up my mind, Lord Pontefract. I am going to marry Théo Joyselle. And—I think I am going to be happy. I—like them all very much. And," holding out her hand, "I am very sorry to have hurt you."
As she spoke the sound of music—violin music—came down the stairs. They both started, for it was the Wedding March from "Lohengrin."
Brigit's small face went white with anger. "I—am sorry," she stammered; "it is—ghastly. It isn't Théo—it is his father. Oh, do go!"
Pontefract nodded. "Yes, I'll go. And—never mind, Brigit. He doesn't know, the old chap!"
He left the room hastily, and she ran upstairs, her hands clenched.
It was as she expected: Théo had left the room, and Joyselle stood alone by the open door, his face radiant with malicious, delight. "Parti, hein? I thought he'd—What is the matter?" he ended hastily, staring at her.
She went straight to him, breathing hard, her brows nearly meeting. "How could you do such a thing? It was abominable—hideous!"
"What was abominable?"
"To play that Wedding March! Théo had told you about—about him, and you did it to hurt him. Oh, how could anybody do such a thing!"