e.

For a long time the three people sat in silence, and then Lady Kingsmead
rose. "I think I'll go upstairs," she said, "but if you two enjoy
sitting as mute as fish, there is no reason why you shouldn't continue
to do so. Good-night, Joyselle."

He rose and kissed her hands, and a moment later he and Brigit were
alone. It was the first time it had happened, for weeks, the girl
realised suddenly.

He stood where Lady Kingsmead had left him, the light falling directly
on his head in a way that showed up very plainly the curious halo-like
effect caused by the silver greyness of the hair about his brow.

"What is wrong, Master?" she asked softly, using Tommy's name for him.
He started. "The matter? Nothing that bears talking about, Brigit. But I
am in its clutches and I will go."

A cold terror came over her. Was it--some woman? "Do not go," she said,
her cheeks burning. "I don't mind your being silent."

He looked at her inquiringly, raising his eyebrows. It was clear that he
noticed something strange in her voice; also that he did not know what
it meant. But he sat down and began rolling a fresh cigarette. The flat
silver box in which he carried his tobacco lay on the table beside him,
and she idly took it up. "Rose-Marie a Victor," she saw engraved on it.
"What a pretty name! The box is old, isn't it?"

"Yes. Or pretends to be. I have had it for years."

"And--she? Rose-Marie?"

"I don't know. It was twenty years ago--in Paris."

Felicite's story recurred to Brigit, the "bad time" in Paris; "how he
loved them all for the time."

He was smoking fitfully, and frowning to himself. She was again
forgotten. It was very warm, and the curtains swayed in irregular puffs
of wind; then came a rumble of thunder. Joyselle started nervously.

"_Un orage_," he said; "I--I hate thunder."

"Do you? I like it." Together they went to the window and looked up at
the threatening sky. A whirl of dust met them, and they drew quickly
back, his sleeve brushing against her shoulders. "It will be bad," he
said, broodingly.

"Yes."

She felt breathless and welcomed the coming storm as suiting her mood.

"I--you asked me what is the matter," Joyselle began, speaking very
quickly. "I will tell you. It is this. There is in me a god, and I
refuse to give him speech. I have genius and I waste it; I have a soul
and I am crushing it. I am a most unworthy and miserable being!"

Absolutely sincere in every word he said, his dramatic