"is Theo?"

"He is in his room; he will come--ah, _mon Dieu_!" Kneeling by his
violin, which luckily had fallen on a bearskin, he took it up and
looked at it shamefacedly. "See what you made me do," he said to Brigit,
"you and your golden dress! _Mon pauvre_ Amati."

She continued to look at him in silence, her instinct telling her that
the strange smile she had seen on the face of the woman in the glass
could not be beaten for purposes of subjugation. She continued to look
and smile, but she was sorry for him, even while every fibre in her
thrilled with triumph.

He realised her now; if she wanted him to love her, he would.

"Will you call Theo?" she asked as he rose. Without a word he left the
room, and a few moments later Theo's arms were around her, his fresh
lips on hers.

The boy was so happy, so incoherently, innocently jubilant, that if she
had in her room for another feeling, it would have been one of pity for
him. But there was no room. She was filled with triumph, and a full
vessel can contain not one drop more of however precious a liquid.

"_Ma Brigitte--mon adoree--que je t'ai desiree!_" stammered the boy.
"Why did you stay so long? Why was it so long? But, now, it is over and
you are here. You have come to me--you, a queen to her slave!"

His delightful face was wet with unconscious tears as they sat together,
and his voice trembled. For a moment she wished she could love him. It
would be so much more fitting, so much better--and then the demon in
her laughed. No. It was his father she loved, and who, if she chose,
should love her.

Madame Joyselle came in, splendid in a new brown silk dress that fitted
her as its skin fits a ripe grape, her face beaming with joy in her
son's joy. She gazed in amazement at Brigit before the younger woman
bent and kissed her, and then sat down and folded her hands, as was her
way.

"You look like a beautiful dragon--doesn't she, Theo?" she asked,
"doesn't she, Victor?"

Joyselle had returned with a look of having just brushed his hair. He
looked smoothed down in some way and was a little pale.

"My faith, she does, _ma vieille_," he returned. "When she opened the
door I was so startled that I--guess what I did, children? Dropped the
Amati!" When they had stopped exclaiming he went on, gradually, but with
a perceptible effort getting back his usual tone, "and stood and gasped
like a young prince in a fairy-tale, didn't I, Most Beautiful?"

She smiled, but she