"Ordinary curly hair," she answered in French.

"But no--black hair is usually dry and like something burnt, or of an
oiliness to disgust. Is it not so, Félicité--is her hair not adorable?"

"_Oui, oui_, Victor; _oui, mon homme_. But we must go, for Lady Brigit
will be wishing to rise. Théo, too, awaits her downstairs."

The big man, who was crouching on the floor playing with the dog, rose
hastily. "Good God!" he cried in English words, but obviously in the
innocent French sense, "I quite forgot that unhappy child! Come,
Félicité; come Papillon, _m'ami_--let us disturb Belle-Ange no longer."

As if he had long been struggling with their reluctance to go, he
shepherded them out of the room, singing as he went downstairs, "_Salut,
demeure chaste et pure._"




CHAPTER EIGHT


The parrot, whose name was Guillaume le Conquérant, was a magnificent,
fluffy, grey bird picked out with green. His eye was knowing, and swift
and deep his infrequent but never-to-be-forgotten bite.

"He is studying you--dear," explained Joyselle, as he stood before the
huge gilt cage with Brigit shortly after her appearance downstairs that
morning. "It is a severe test that everyone who comes here has to