Joyselle put his violin carefully into its case.
"You are rude, mademoiselle," he returned sternly; "very rude indeed. But you are—my guest."
And he left the room.
Brigit's temper was very violent, but she had seen in his set face signs of one much worse than her own, and, with the strange unexpectedness that seemed to characterise the man, his last move was as fully that of a gentleman as his trick with the Wedding March had been shocking.
He was her host, and—he had left her rather than forget that fact.
For the first time in her life she was utterly at a loss. What should she do?
She was still standing where he had left her when Madame Joyselle came in, perfectly serene, and closed the door.
"What is the matter?" she asked calmly, sitting down and folding her hands.
"I—M. Joyselle—hurt one of my friends—he was—rude. And then——"
"C'est ça. And then you were rude. Never mind, he will not think of it again, and neither must you."