He himself had a delightful little fault in his speech, being quite incapable of pronouncing the English “r,” rolling it in his throat in a way that always amused Brigit.

As he talked, her smile deepened in character, and from one of mere friendly greeting became one of real affection.  He was nice, this boy; she liked his honest dark eyes and the expression of his handsome young mouth.

“Tell me,” she began presently, “how is your father?”

“He is well, my father, but very nervous.  Poor mother!”

“Poor mother?”

“But yes.  The concert is to be to-morrow, and he is always in a furious state of nerves before he plays.  He has been terrific all day.”

Brigit sat down.  “How curious.  One would think that he of all people would be used to playing in public by now,” she commented, observing with a tinge of impatience the effect on him of her head outlined against the pale moonlight.

He stood for a moment, unconsciously and irresistibly admiring her.  Then, with a little shake of his head, answered her remark.  “No, no, he is most nervous always.  It is your amateur who knows no stage-fright.  Papa,” he went on, using the name that to English ears sounds so strangely on grown-up lips, “says he invariably feels as though the audience were wild beasts going to rush at him and tear him to pieces—­until he has played one number.”

“And after the concert?”

As she spoke dinner was announced, and while they went down the passage to the dining-room at the tail of the little procession, he answered with a laugh, “Oh, afterwards a child could eat out of his hand.  He is honey and milk, nectar and—­ambrrrrosia!”

The dinner was noisy.  Lady Kingsmead always shrieked, as did Mrs. Newlyn, and her other guests either bellowed or screamed, with the exception of Yelverton, who was hungry and said little.

Brigit sat between him and young Joyselle.  It was nice to have the boy next her, but his adoration was too obvious to be altogether comfortable.

Freddy Newlyn told some new stories, all delightfully vulgar; Carron gave a realistic resume of a recent French play.

“Awful rot, isn’t it?” queried Yelverton suddenly under cover of a roar of laughter.  “Why the dickens can’t they talk quietly?”

“If you dislike it,” she inquired unresentfully, “why do you come?”

“I beg pardon, Lady Brigit, I forgot that you belonged here; I always do forget.”

Then Joyselle turned to her, his face so eloquent that she felt like warning him not to betray his secret.  “I—­I am so happy to be here,” he stammered.

Her very black, very well-drawn eyebrows drew a trifle closer together, and with the quickness of his race he saw it.

“Forgive me, Lady Brigit,” he said hastily in English.  “I am sorry.  And—­I will not say it again!  Only——­”

“Only—­you are glad?  Well, I’m glad, too,” she answered slowly.  The noisier the others grew as dinner progressed, the closer she and this quiet-voiced boy seemed to draw together.