For the first time in her life she was utterly at a loss. What should
she do?

She was still standing where he had left her when Madame Joyselle came
in, perfectly serene, and closed the door.

"What is the matter?" she asked calmly, sitting down and folding her
hands.

"I--M. Joyselle--hurt one of my friends--he was--rude. And then----"

"_C'est ça._ And then _you_ were rude. Never mind, he will not think of
it again, and neither must you."

Brigit was silent, and stood looking at le Conquérant. She _had_ been
impolite, and Joyselle's discourtesy was, after all, more like a bit of
schoolboy malice than the deliberate insult of a grown man. And his
dignified rebuke to her had set her at once on the plane of a naughty
child.

Were they both grown up, or both children? Or was he grown and she a
child, or was she a grown-up and he a child? It was very puzzling and
very absurd. She wanted to rage and she wanted to laugh.

She laughed. Because as she turned towards the disinterested spectator
on the sofa, Joyselle came in, his face bearing such a reflection of the
expression she felt to be in her own that she could not resist.

"_Bon._ It is laugh, then?" he cried, kissing her hands. "It appears