temperament gave
force and a kind of rhythm to his confession that made it very poignant,
and his face very white, his big eyes glowed tragically as he stood
looking over his hearer's head.

"A most miserable being."

He groaned, and throwing himself into a chair, buried his face in his
hands.

Outside one or two carriages hurried past, and the darkness was streaked
with quick recurring flashes of lightning.

Brigit looked long at Joyselle, and then, irresistibly drawn to him,
laid her hand with great gentleness on his head. "You are tired, and the
storm has got on your nerves."

"No, no! I am not tired. There is for my great good-for-nothingness not
that excuse. I am--a wastrel of my gifts." It was, she saw, one of the
crises of despair under which many artists suffer, but its intensity was
most painful. "You are good to me, Brigitte," he said, brokenly, taking
her left hand and holding it to his forehead, which was cold and damp.
"You are an angel!"

As he spoke a terrific zigzag of fire crossed the windows, and the house
shook in the almost immediate crash. Like a child Joyselle threw his
arms round Brigit and hid his face against the embroidery on her
corsage, holding her tight. It seemed to her an eternity before either
of them moved, and when, abruptly, he let her go, and rose, his face had
changed.

"Good-bye--I must go--I beg your pardon----"

He stammered piteously, and did not look at her, but stood holding the
lapels of his coat as if he was trying to tear them off. Then, without
another word, he was gone, out into the storm.

CHAPTER NINE

Brigit was not at all surprised when, early the next morning, a note
from Joyselle was brought to her.

She had slept very badly, for she seemed to have reached a crisis in her
relations with Joyselle; and lying awake in the heat that the storm had
but increased, she passed hours in unprofitable forecastings. What would
he do, now that he knew? Would he make love to her? Or would he try to
hurry on the wedding? Or----

Of course, what he did do proved an utter surprise to her.

"My dear Brigit," he wrote, "just a line to say good-bye to you
for a time. I am accepting an offer to do two months' touring in the
United States (which country I do not like, but which likes me), and
shall come back laden with dollars with which to buy you a beautiful
wedding present. What shall it be--diamonds? I hope you will say
lace--yards and yards of exquisite lac