humoured Lady Brigit
stepped out of the darkness into the homely light of the simple scene.

For a moment Theo plainly did not believe his eyes, and then as she
advanced, scarlet with a quite unusual embarrassment and sense of
intrusion, he gathered himself together and met her, his hands held out,
his face glowing.

"Victor--oh, Victor--this is terrible," Madame Joyselle burst out,
scarlet with shyness, all her serenity gone. "You should not have
brought her to the _kitchen! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu_, a countess' daughter!"

But Theo led his _fiancee_ straight to his mother, and his instinctive
good taste saved the situation. "Mamma--here she is. Lady Brigit, this
is my mother--the best mother in the world."

The little roundabout woman wiped her hand on her apron, and taking the
girl's in hers, looked mutely up at her with eyes so full of timid
sweetness that Brigit, touched and pleased, bent and kissed her.

"_Voyons, voyons_," cried Joyselle, rubbing his hands and executing a
few steps by the fire, "here we are all one family. Felicite, my old
woman, is she not wonderful?"

Madame Joyselle, the flush dying from her fresh cheeks, bowed. "She is
indeed. And now--Theo, call Toinon--we must go to the dining-room."
Nobody else, even Brigit, who had never beheld that cheerless apartment,
wished to leave the kitchen, but Madame Joyselle's will was in such
matters law, and the little party was soon seated round the table
upstairs. And the omelet was delicious.

* * * * *

An hour later Brigit found herself sitting in a big red-leather
armchair, in a highly modern and comfortable, if slightly gaudy
apartment--Joyselle's study. There was a small grate-fire with a red
club-fender, a red, patternless carpet, soft, well-draped curtains, and
tables covered with books and smoking materials.

There was also a baby-grand piano, covered with music, and a huge grey
parrot in a gilded and palatial cage.

It was Joyselle's translation of an English gentleman's room, even to
the engravings and etchings on the wall. One thing, however, the girl
had never before seen. One end of the room was glassed in as if in a
huge oak frame, and the wall behind it was literally covered with signed
photographs.

"Most of 'em are royalties," Joyselle explained with a certain naif
pride, "beginning with your late Queen. I used to play Norman folk-songs
to her. There is the Kaiser's, the late Kaiser's, the Czar's, Umberto's