was, an English gentleman. Brigit felt as though she had returned to an
uncongenial home after a tour into some strange, delightful country.

"I--I owe you an apology, I suppose," she said, so simply that he
stared.

"No, you don't, Lady Brigit. You wrote me a--a very kind note. But I
wanted to ask you to reconsider. I--I am unhappy."

There was a short pause, during which he looked at her unfalteringly,
and then he went on with a certain dignity: "I have--drunk too much of
late years, I know, but--I will never do so again. And I think I could
make you happy."

"Did mother send you here?" asked the girl suddenly.

"No; I telephoned her this morning for your address. She would be
glad--if you could make up your mind."

"I have made up my mind, Lord Pontefract. I am going to marry Théo
Joyselle. And--I think I am going to be happy. I--like them all very
much. And," holding out her hand, "I am _very_ sorry to have hurt you."

As she spoke the sound of music--violin music--came down the stairs.
They both started, for it was the Wedding March from "Lohengrin."

Brigit's small face went white with anger. "I--am sorry," she stammered;
"it is--ghastly. It isn't Théo--it is his father. Oh, _do_ go!"

Pontefract nodded. "Yes, I'll go. And--never mind, Brigit. He doesn't