ed, though. Unless--I might change Billy and the
Farquhar girl to their table, and put them in the boudoir balcony! Billy
wouldn't mind and the Farquhar girl doesn't matter; she didn't get me
those tickets, anyhow."

The Sparrow gave a little hop of satisfaction.

"Right. That'll do famously."

So the Cassowary went back to the table and laid her hand on Joyselle's
sleeve. "I have put you at another table, M. Joyselle. You go to the
boudoir balcony--Sophy will take you there--so it's all right. I must go
and find Billy Vere now. Oh----" turning, she found herself face to face
with Brigit Mead, who had just arrived.

"I say, Brigit, would you mind sitting at the table with M. Joyselle?
Eugene Struther is your man, and M. Joyselle objects to his table
because it is number thirteen."

Brigit, shaking hands with her enthusiastic hostess, caught Joyselle's
eye. He had heard.

"Mind? Not a bit," she answered carelessly, "if he doesn't."

Mrs. Newlyn turned, to find the top of Joyselle's head presented to her
in a bow of mockly-resigned acquiescence. "Then, _that's_ all right.
What's the matter, Oliver?"

Lord Oliver Maytopp, a cherished clown in that section of society in
which the Newlyns had their being, was making believe to cry, his large
mouth opened grotesquely, his fists digging into his eyes.

"I d--don't want to sit at the table next Meg's," he sobbed, "when I
tell funny stories she always--makes faces at me. I want to go home to
Nursey."

Brigit moved away, her upper lip raised disdainfully. How odious they
all were!

And how detestable the whole house with its health of art-treasures,
selected by an artist friend of Newlyn's.

"_Nouveau-riche?_" asked Joyselle, joining her.

"No. That is, they are well-born, but they are _nouveau_ as regards
money. Her father made a lucky speculation in electric-lighting, I think
it was, after she was married. They haven't got used to their money yet.
So," she added, as they stepped out on to one of the many balconies with
which the house was ornamented, "you don't object to sitting at my
table?"

"_Brigitte!_"

His was of the type of face that is ennobled by any strong passion, and
he looked very splendid as he towered above her, white and shaken.

"You will not leave me?" she asked, again possessed by the fear that had
tormented her from the moment when he had dropped his violin the evening
of the golden frock.

"Brigitte," he returned, leaning on the rail