dvanced to meet each other, red in the face and
bashful of eye. The encounter at the door had been so momentary that
she had hardly had time to recognise the pale face with the deep blue
eyes, but for him the first note of her voice had been sufficient.

"I--I thought you were Pat!"

"I--I thought you were the cook."

She straightened at that, with a flash of half-resentful curiosity.

"_Why_? Am I so like her? And do you always--"

"No, I don't. Never. But to-day she was out and your brother wanted--"

"Oh, never mind, never mind!" Pat was too greedy for attention to
suffer a long explanation. "What does it matter? She's a wretch,
Pixie, and she goes out and leaves me to starve. That good Samaritan
was going to make tea when we heard your knock."

"I'll make it for you!" Pixie said smiling, but she seated herself by
Pat's side as she spoke, and slid her hand through his arm, as though
realising that for the moment her presence was the most welcome of all
refreshments. She wore a smartly cut tweed coat and skirt, and a soft
felt hat with a pheasant's wing, and her brown shoes looked quite
preposterously small and bright. In some indefinable way she looked
older and more responsible than the Pixie of two years before, and
Stephen noticed the change and wondered as to its cause.

"I think I will go now," he said hastily; "your sister will look after
you, O'Shaughnessy, and you will have so much to talk about. I'll come
again!"

But Pat was obstinate; he insisted that his friend should stay on, and
appealed to Pixie for support, which she gave with great good will.

"Please do! We'll talk the better for having an audience. Won't we
now, Pat? We were always vain."

"We were!" Pat assented with unction. "Especially yourself. Even as a
child you played up to the gallery." He took her hand and squeezed it
tightly between his own. "Pixie, I can't believe it! It's too nice to
be true. And Bridgie, what does she say? Does she approve of your
coming?"

"She did one moment, and the next she didn't. She was torn in pieces,
the poor darling, wanting to come to you herself, and to stay with Dick
at the same time. You know what she is when Dick is ill! His
temperature has only to go up one point, to have her weeping about Homes
for Soldiers' Orphans, and pondering how she can get most votes. He's
buried with military honours, poor Richard, every time he takes a cold.
So I was firm with her, and