"She eats, the most beautiful!" he cried joyously, "and _petite mère_
and Yellow Dog look on! Is it not wonderful, _ma vieille_?"

Madame Joyselle smiled--sensibly. "It is delightful, my man, delightful.
But I fear you should not have come in--she may not like it."

"Not like it? Of course she does. Why should not the old beau-papa visit
his most beautiful while she breakfasts? You are a goose, Félicité!"

Brigit, vastly amused by their discussing her as if she were not
present, gave a bit of roll to the dog.

"A quaint little dog," she observed to them both.

Joyselle laughed. "Yes, yes, _il est bien drôle, ce pauvre_.
But-ter-fly. And the name, too, _hein_? Some day I will tell you the
story of why I have had nine dogs all named 'But-ter-fly.' There is so
much to tell you, so much."

He talked on, very rapidly, changing subjects with the rapidity of a
child, using his square brown hands in vivid gesture, marching about the
room, teasing the dog who, since his master had entered, had had eyes
and ears for none but him.

"The concert, you know, yesterday, was a grand success. All the papers
are full of it. Many play the violin to-day, you see, but there is only
one Joyselle."

"There is also a Kubelik," suggested Brigit slily, to see what he would