wift glance behind. Geoffrey had gone back to his
writing; his pen travelled swiftly across the page; he did not raise his
head.

CHAPTER TEN.

PIXIE GIVES JOAN A TONIC.

A romp with the children restored Pixie's elastic spirits, and brought a
revived wish for her friends' society. She leaned out of the window and
beheld a game of tennis on in obvious need of a fourth player, waved
gaily in response to a general beckoning, and tripped downstairs singing
a glad refrain. And then, in the corridor outside her boudoir, behold a
pale and tragic Esmeralda summoning her with a dramatic hand. Pixie
flounced, and a quiver of indignation stiffened her small body. A whole
hour of a lovely spring morning had already been spent in struggling to
overcome the depression caused by the scene at breakfast, and here was
Joan obviously preparing a second edition. Pixie was no niggard in
sympathy, but for the moment she had other views. Two charming young
men were waiting without in the sunshine, and any ordinary human girl
prefers the sunshine and masculine society, to a room indoors and an
hysterical sister. Therefore, being excessively human, Pixie flounced,
and looked bored and impatient. She entered the room and shut the door
behind her.

"What's the matter _now_?"

The answer was sufficiently unexpected.

"Pixie, if I die will you promise me faithfully to live here and take
charge of my orphan boys?"

"I will not!" snapped Pixie sharply. It was just what might have been
expected for Esmeralda to picture her own tragic death as the result of
a passing squall. Quite possibly she had been sitting for the last hour
picturing the stages of her own decline and the grief of the survivors.
Strong common sense was the best remedy she could have. "I hope to have
my own home to look after. And they are too spoiled. I wouldn't
undertake the charge."

"Somebody," croaked Esmeralda deeply, "somebody must look after my
boys!"

"Don't you worry about that. Geoffrey'll marry again. They always do
when the children are young."

This was deliberate cruelty, but the strain was severe. Stanor was
standing, racket in hand, gazing up at the window. The sunshine lit up
his handsome face, his expectant smile. Pixie gave another flounce and
turned impatiently to meet the next lament; but Esmeralda was silent,
her hands were clasped on her knee, and tears--_real_ tears--shone in
her eyes. It was a rare thing for Joan to cry