to
give in than to continue the argument. "Yes, but he's lame!" came back
automatically as the answer to every remonstrance, till Stanor shrugged
his shoulders and sat down to write his letter.

Pixie _was_ indeed, as the family had it, "the soft-heartedest
creature!" He loved her for it, but none the less depression seized him
anew. Now there would be the Runkle to tackle! More arguments! More
objections! A fellow ought to be jolly happy when he was married, to
make up for all the fuss and agitation which went before...

Stanor's letter of announcement was short and to the point, for he was
not in the mood to lapse into sentiment. By return of post came the
Runkle's reply, short also, and non-committal--nothing more, in fact,
than the announcement that he preferred to discuss the matter in person,
and would the following day arrive at a certain hotel, where he bade his
nephew meet him. Stanor therefore made his excuses to his hostess,
packed his bag, and dispatched a letter of explanation to his _fiancee_,
unconscious of the fact that she was at that very hour receiving
information first hand.

It came about in the most natural, and simple fashion. As Pixie,
roaming the grounds bareheaded to gather a bouquet of wild flowers to
present to the little invalid, emerged suddenly upon the drive, she
found a tall, grey-coated stranger leaning against a tree in an attitude
expressive of collapse. He was very tall, and very thin; the framework
of his shoulders was high and broad, but from them the coat seemed to
flap around a mere skeleton of a frame. His hair was dark, his
complexion pale, and leaning back with closed eyes he looked so
alarmingly ill and spent, that, dropping the flowers to the ground,
Pixie leaped forward to the rescue.

"You're ill. ... Let me help! There's a seat close by. ... Lean on
me!"

The stranger opened his eyes, and Pixie started as most people _did_
start when they first looked into Stephen Glynn's eyes, which were of
that deep, intense blue which is romantically dubbed purple and fringed
with dark lashes, which added still further to their depth. They were
sad eyes, tired eyes, eyes of an exceeding and pitiful beauty, eloquent
of suffering and repression. They looked out under dark, level brows,
and with their intense earnestness of expression flooded the thin face
with life. As she met their gaze Pixie drew a quick, gasping breath of
surprise.

The stranger in his turn l