tful, but it had been full of danger.

In time Joyselle would learn to evade these pitfalls, with which their
future seemed to bristle, but as yet he was so unused to avoiding things
in his path that it was almost a miracle that she had, as she put it
with a half-whimsical, half-despairing smile, got him safely home
without an outburst.

She was, had been from the first, fairly sure of herself, but she was
wise enough to acknowledge that her strength depended largely on his. If
he had broken down, she knew that the odds were largely against her
being able, in her inevitable despair over his certain-to-follow
good-bye, to continue to hide her own feelings. And after that, she
believed, he would never see her again.

So it was with a strong feeling of relief that she said good-bye to him,
half-way home, and went on alone.

As the hansom started again she turned and looked back. Joyselle stood,
hat in hand, where she had left him, his face, now that he believed
himself to be unseen by her, black with thought. Then, with the so
familiar jerk of his head, he put on his hat, smiled, and marched off
down the street.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

One afternoon, a few days later, Tommy Kingsmead burst into his sister's
room where she was sitting writing.

"I say, Bick----"

"Hello, little boy, what's the matter?"

Tommy shrugged his shoulders in close imitation of Joyselle.

"I don't know, but something is. Very. It's--Theo!"

She started. "Theo? He isn't ill, is he?"

"No, no. He's downstairs; wants to see you. There's been some kind of a
row in Golden Square. _Petite mere_ and the Master have been talking for
an hour, as hard as ever they can talk, and Theo is upset, and the
Master has gone off in a tearing rage--do go down and find out, Brigit,
and then come back and tell me."

Lord Kingsmead's pristine curiosity regarding everything with which he
came into contact had by no means suffered eclipse since he had been
living in London.

Devoted as he was to Joyselle and to his music, the little boy's passion
for knowledge of all kinds seemed to increase, and there was in his
small, pale, pointed face a strained, overkeen look that troubled his
sister at times. Now, however, she had no leisure to think of it, and
hurried downstairs to the drawing-room, where she found Theo walking
restlessly up and down.

"Brigit," he burst out abruptly, as she came in, "when will you marry
me?"

"Good gracious, Theo--what--what