answer.

"My dear, yes; there is Kubelik, and there is Joachim still, thank God.
_Chacun dans son genre._ But Kubelik is a boy, and he has 'violin
hands'--fingers a _kilomètre_ long. Look at my hands, and you will see
why I am not his equal in execution. In other things----"

He looked gravely at his hands as he held them out to her. This was in
its turn different from the childlike vanity of a minute past; he was a
creature of a thousand moods, each one absolutely sincere.

Théo, she saw, was like his mother. From her he had his gentle voice and
quiet ways; from his father only the splendid dark eyes.

Joyselle was a remarkably handsome man in his somewhat flamboyant way,
and even the clear morning light failed to show lines in his brown face,
though his silky, wavy hair was very grey about his brow. He could be
compared to no one Brigit had ever seen; he was, even in his absurd
velvet gown, head and shoulders above anyone she knew, temperamentally
as well as physically. He could, she saw, go anywhere, among people of
any class, and find there an at least momentary niche for himself.
Gentleman? She would not answer her own mental question, but great
artist, man of the world, good fellow, remarkable man, most certainly.

"Your hair is very charming," he was saying as she came to the above
conclusion; "it seems to love being yours--as what would not? The hair
of many women looks as though it were trying hard--oh, so hard!--to get
away from them; but yours clings and--what is the word?--tendrils round
your head as if it loved you."