“Madness!” exclaimed Lady Fitz Rewes.
“No, no! I wish to do it.”
The priest stated a few objections, but she remained firm in her resolve.
“He was my father's friend,” she said, quietly.
They both noticed that she never once referred to Parflete as her husband.
“If you stay, Brigit, I too will stay,” said Pensée.
“That, dearest, you must decide for yourself. In any case, I cannot leave him. Tell the nurse not to come back. And let me be alone here for a little while.”
Lady Fitz Rewes and Father Foster went downstairs to the coffee-room, and made a pretence of eating dinner. The two talked about the deplorable marriage, the Orange affair, Brigit's talents. Of course, she was very young. But Rachel—the great Rachel—made her first triumph at seventeen.
“One doesn't like to say it,” observed Pensée, “but this death seems providential. If she marries Orange, she will give up the stage. Poor child! At last it really looks as though she might be happy—like other people.”