We are all very old," he faltered, fumbling at his
snuff-box, "very old----"

Someone outside thought he had finished and began to clap. He sat down
abashed, and took snuff to hide his confusion. Yes, they were all very
old.

The meal ended at length with coffee, calvados, a local liqueur, and
cheese.

"You are tired, my daughter?" asked Felicite, as Brigit frowned with
impatience.

"Yes, _petite mere_."

Felicite, who for the last half hour had been fanning the sleeping
bridegroom to keep off the flies, sighed.

"It is very warm. Why not go? They will clear the table and dance on the
grass, I think."

Everyone left the arbour except her and the old man, and Brigit, feeling
that Joyselle was close on her heels, went into the house and into the
sitting-room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Joyselle closed the door, and, to her surprise, turned the key. Then he
faced her.

"Brigit," he said, clearing his throat, "do you love me?"

"Love you?" she faltered. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that for thirty-six hours I have doubted you, and that I have
been----" He broke off short, his vivid face intensely expressive.

"But why? Thirty-six hours? That means that--but I did not even see you
yesterday!"

He stood, his arms hanging by his sides, looking at her without a word.
Then, when the pause had grown unbearable, he returned slowly: "The
night before last I saw you with Theo--on the lawn."

A painful blush burnt her face, and, unwontedly abashed, she turned
away. It seemed to her almost monstrous that Joyselle should have
witnessed the little scene in the moonlight.

"You--you saw him kiss me?" she faltered.

"Yes. But that was not the worst. He held open his arms to you, and--you
went to him as if--as if you were giving yourself to him."

"I was, Victor. Surely you understand. He is so good, Theo--so very
good. And I have promised to marry him, and he has been patient, and I
have treated him horribly. The longer I know him the better--I like
him. Surely you can't mind that?"

Joyselle did not raise his hand. He was, she saw with a curious
sensation of detachment, undergoing a severe struggle.

"Mind? I--the situation is--horrible," he began, after a pause. "God
knows I love my son, and I should hate you if you hurt him----"

"I know that," she interrupted quickly, and he looked up.

"Perhaps that is why----"

"Why? No. Ah, Victor, you know that I love you. You must know that. And
yet I have promised to