ggest little kid arsks 'er 'er nime!
If she didn't know 'im, why did she kiss 'im? An' before we'd got to the
corner out comes the lean 'un, lookin' like a bloomin' corpse. Something
must 'ave 'appened in that old 'ouse, an' I'll keep a lookout in the
_People_ and see wot it was. I'd like to 'ave been a fly on the wall
during that there interview, I would. A fly on the wall with a tiste for
short'and."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lady Kingsmead, who was going to the Newlyns' ball later, was having
dinner in her little sitting-room when Carron came rushing in, nearly
treading on the heels of the afflicted Fledge, who did like to have a
chance to announce visitors properly.

"Good Lord, Gerald!--what is the matter?"

"Matter enough. Brigit is Victor Joyselle's mistress."

He sank into a chair and pressed his thin hands together until the bones
cracked.

"Gerald!"

"She is! she _is_! I have just come from his studio in Chelsea. Followed
her there. She was alone with him for over an hour. And when she came
out----"

Lady Kingsmead rose and went to him.

"Now listen to me," she said firmly. "You have either been drinking or
you are mad. I don't care where you have been or where you saw Brigit.
This story is--rot!"

Lady Kingsmead was not a clever woman, but this move on her part, the
result not of a virtuous belief in virtue or of a sudden swing of her
mental pendulum towards the effective, such as some women have--was
amazing in its effect, because it was spontaneous and sincere.

"Will you have something to drink?" she asked.

It was a curious scene; the dainty little room with the swivel-table
laid for one, the pretty, well-preserved woman, looking down with real
pity but something very near scorn at the broken, haggard, untidy man
sprawling in a rose-coloured chair.

"You are a fool, Tony," he said roughly. "I tell you I know."

"Bosh. You know perfectly well that I was never silly about my children.
Well--I don't care what you say about Brigit, I _know_ she is all right.
As yet, anyway," she added.

"She loves that--that brute," he stammered, wiping the perspiration from
his face with a crumpled handkerchief. "I saw her face as she left his
studio."

Lady Kingsmead pursed her mouth thoughtfully.

"That may be," she admitted. "I've thought for some time that something
was in the air----"

Breaking off, she glanced hastily at him. The old habit of telling him
her thoughts as they came to her was st