seldom in her life had five days passed so slowly. Sunday itself had
seemed a week long, the atmosphere strained and unreal, each member of
the little party talking to pass the time, uttering platitudes, and
discussing every imaginable subject under the sun but just the one which
filled every mind. No need to bid Pixie to be discreet, to warn her not
to sing, nor glance too frequently in a certain direction--a talking
automaton could not have shown less sign of feeling.

As for Stephen Glynn, the news of his nephew's sudden return obviously
came to him as a shock, but as a man of the world he was an adept in
hiding his feelings, and though he curtailed his visit, so long as he
was in the flat he exerted himself to preserve an ordinary demeanour.
His adieux also were of the most commonplace description.

"It's hardly worth while to say good-bye. We shall meet, we shall
certainly meet before long. I will write to welcome Stanor, and you--"
he held Pixie's hand and looked down at her with an inquiring
glance--"you will let me hear your--news?"

"I will," answered Pixie simply.

Bridgie would have given a fortune to be able to see what was in "the
child's" head at that moment, to know what she was really thinking. The
sisters walked together to the door, Pat, on his stick, bringing up the
rear, and stood watching Stephen descend. Once and again he looked up,
smiled, and waved his hand, and as he did so his eyes had the same
piteous glance which Pixie had noticed on their first meeting. The
expression of those upturned eyes hurt all three onlookers in different
degrees, and sent them back to their little room with downcast looks.

"Now he'll bury himself in the country again and mope! It's been the
making of him being here in town. Goodness knows what will happen to
him now!" said Pat, dropping on to the couch with an impatient sigh, and
Bridgie murmured softly--

"The dear, man! The dear man! So hard for, him to be alone. But you
needn't be anxious, Pat. He's so _good_. He'll be looked after! ...
Don't you think, now, his eyes are the least thing in the world like
Dick's?"

"Not the least least!" snapped Pixie, and that was her one contribution
to the conversation.

And now it was Thursday--Thursday afternoon, within an hour, of the time
fixed by telegram for Stanor's arrival. Pat had elected to stay in bed,
in consequence of what he called headache and his sisters translated as
"sulks." He didn't w