undergo. He is writing his memoirs, too."

"It will be a sad day for you, papa, when his memoirs appear," put in
Théo, who was smoking a pipe and walking up and down the room just
because he was much too happy to sit still. "You have yet to see the
_real_ Victor Joyselle, Brigit. This polite being is the one we keep for
company."

Brigit laughed. "Is it true?" she asked the violinist.

"Yes," he returned unexpectedly, "you see now the happy Joyselle; the
Joyselle _père de famille_, domestic; the artist Joyselle, alas! is an
irritable, nervous, unpleasant person, who forgets to eat, and then
abuses his wife for giving him no dinner; an absent-minded idiot who
leaves his own old coat at the club and goes off wrapped in the Marquis
of St. Ive's sables; a swearing, smoking, wild-headed person, who
adores, nevertheless, his little Théo, and that little Théo's beautiful
_fiancée_."

At the end of this long speech his face, which had in the middle of it
been sombre with a sense of his own iniquity, suddenly cleared, until a
radiant smile transfigured it.

"My little brother adores you, M. Joyselle," said Brigit suddenly; "he
will be _so_ pleased. He calls your hair a halo!"

"A sad sinner's halo, then. The beautiful saints have others. And your
little brother, what is his name? And how old is he?"

"Tommy is his name, and he is twelve. He is music-mad, and such a dear!