ct on men, that there was no vanity at all in her suddenly
awakened solicitude for him. At any moment he might see her with the
eyes of a man, instead of, as he had hitherto done, with those of a
father.

"And if he fell in love with _me_," she told herself as the maid clasped
her pearls round her neck, "there would be no hope for any of us."

It is remarkable that the possibility of Joyselle's loving her only
added to her misery, for most women in like cases would have clutched at
the bare chance of such a contingency in rapturous disregard of all
consequences.

She, however, who had been the object of more strong passions than many
women ever even hear of, knew although, or possibly because, she had
never before cared a jot for any man, that her time had come, and that
for her love must be a perilous thing. She had once been called a stormy
petrel, and now as, racked with the agony of her resolve, she sat
through the interminable dinner, she recalled the name, and smiled
bitterly to herself. Yes, she was a stormy petrel, and she had no right
to ruin Victor Joyselle and his family. She would break her engagement
and go to Italy for the winter. The Lenskys were going, and she would go
with them.

Joyselle was in high spirits that evening. He had had a letter from
La-bas, as he always called Normandy, and his mother was better, and
greatly looking forward to his visit. "She is old, my mother," he told
the party, "eighty years old, but her cheeks are still rosy! They live
in Falaise, in a small little house near the parish church, and in her
garden she grows vegetables--ah, such vegetables!"

"It is a great age," observed someone, and he laughed aloud. "Yes--for
here. La-bas with us, she is not so old as she would be here. I am an
old man here, but there, I am still _jeune_ Joyselle! And my big boy, my
betrothed boy, is still _le petit du jeune_ Joyselle."

It was not particularly interesting, but nevertheless everyone at the
table listened with delight. The man's vividness, his simple certainty
of their sympathy, were irresistible.

"Next September," he went on, draining his champagne glass and wiping
his moustache upward, in a martial way, "is their golden wedding, _mes
vieux_! It will be very fine. Very fine indeed, for all the children and
grandchildren," he glanced slily at Brigit, who clasped her hands
lightly on her lap, "will be there, and we shall eat until we can eat no
more, and tell each other old tale