blushing scarlet in quick French sympathy for
the strange susceptibilities of his English fiancee, "don't!"

Brigit rose slowly. "I must go and say good night to Tommy," she said.
"I shall be down in a few minutes."

Tommy was in bed, reading a very large book by the light of an electric
lamp.

"What have you got there?" his sister asked, lying down by him and
pressing her face to the cool pillow.

"Oh, nothing. I just thought I ought to know something about--_Amatis_.
It's very interesting," he returned solemnly, and then burst out: "Oh,
Bick, isn't he _simply glorious_!"

"Yes, Tommy."

"There was never anyone like him. Not only the fiddling,
but--everything. Don't you think so? Don't you, Bicky?" he persisted
anxiously.

"Yes, Tommy, dear."

"I do think you the luckiest girl in the whole world. Just fancy being
_his_ daughter."

"Yes, Tommy."

Her head whirled, her heart beat hard, her hands were as cold as ice.
This, she told herself, was the plunge; it would be better shortly. And
when it _was_ better, then she could begin to fight. For she would
fight. It was a monstrous thing, a nightmare, and she would fight it
down.

"Brigit."

"Yes, Tommy?" With an effort she roused herself and sat up.

Tommy had closed the book and put it away. He now sat hunched in bed,
his thin arms in their pale blue sleeves clasping his knees. "Brigit, do
you think a peer could ever be a really great violinist?"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A sleepless night is always a bad thing, but it is full of horror when
its victim is haunted by an ever-recurring thought.

Brigit Mead went to her room, dismissed what her brother called her half
of Amelie, the French maid, put on a dressing-gown, and sat down by the
fire to think.

Her room was very exposed, and the wind howled dismally round the corner
of the house, while the rain fell in violent gusts against the ancient
panes. It was a comfort to hear the storm, for it made the fire welcome,
and a fire is comforting.

The girl huddled close to it, and according to her wont began uttering
her thoughts in a whisper.

"It is that. There's no doubt. And that is why I was so happy. He
doesn't know, that's one comfort. Only--what on earth am I to do? I
wonder if it will get worse or better, the more I see him? If only he
would make some more horrible blunders, or--or what? It isn't what he
does, it's what he is. It isn't even the playing. I barely heard him
to-night. And Theo-