He had taken off his hat, and his dark, handsome, excited face was
distinctly visible under the untidy, slightly curly mass of peculiarly
silky, silver-grey hair. Brigit drew a deep breath. Victor Joyselle! She
had often heard him play. Those were the hands, in the brown dogskin
gloves, that worked such witchery with his violin. That was the violin
in the shabby box beside him. His dark eyes, over which the lids dropped
at the outer corners, were now fixed on hers, he was trying to see
through her veil. He was a magnificent creature, even now, with his
youth behind him: his big nose had fine cut, sensitive nostrils, his
mouth under a big moustache was well-cut and serene, and his strong chin
was softened by a dimple. And he was to be--her father-in-law.

For the first time for months the girl felt the youth and sense of fun
stir in her. Then he spoke--irrepressibly, as if he could not help it.

"I beg your pardon, madame, for singing," he burst out, "I--forgot that
I was not alone."

She bowed without speaking. Madame!

"May I open the other window?" he pursued, rising restlessly and tearing
off his gloves as if they hurt him, thereby revealing a large diamond on
the little finger of his right--the bow-hand.

"Yes."

He did so, and then sat down, and taking an open telegram from his
pocket, read it through several times, his nostrils quivering, his mouth
dimpling in an uncontrollable and enchanting smile. Then again, as if
impelled by some superior force, he turned to her and said: "I am not a