t them with a smile. She was longing to talk
to each one of them in turns, and with her usual complacency was assured
that each would reciprocate the wish. But the next moment brought with
it a jar, for Geoffrey crossed the room to join his wife, and the two
younger men made a bee-line for the chair by the _other_ side of the
sofa, whereon Honor sat ensconced!

It was only a minute, less than a minute, before Stanor had established
a lead, and Mr Carr's deviation to the left was a triumph of smiling
composure; nevertheless, Pixie's sharp eyes had seen and understood, and
her heart felt a natural girlish pang. At twenty it is hard to accept
with resignation the part of second fiddle, and Pixie's generosity had
its limits--as whose has not? She had looked at Honor's pretty face and
costly gown, had heard of her wealth and independence with the purest
and most ungrudging pleasure, but when it became a case of superior
popularity, that was a very different matter! Positively, it was quite
an effort to twist her lips into a smile to greet Mr Carr, and it made
matters no better to perceive the artificiality of his response.

He was a man several years older than the handsome Stanor, and his type
of face was so essentially legal that his profession as barrister could
be guessed even before it was known. His chin was the most pronounced
feature of the face--it was really interesting to discover just how
assertive a chin could be. It was a prominent, deeply indented
specimen, which ascribed to itself so much power of expression that even
the eyes themselves played a secondary part. The tilt of it, the droop
of it, the aggressive tilt forward were each equally eloquent, and, one
felt sure, must make equal appeal to a British jury.

At this moment, however, there was no jury at hand--only Pixie
O'Shaughnessy, feeling very small and snubbed in her corner of the sofa,
and robbed for the moment of her accustomed aplomb by the blighting
consciousness that she was not wanted.

Robert Carr's chin was leaning very dejectedly forward; he would have
voted his companion a tongue-tied little bore if Stanor Vaughan had not
taken the opportunity of a moment when his host was absent from the
dining-room to recount her "sporting" forgiveness of his own _faux pas_.

"That's the right sort. I like that girl!" had been Robert's reply, and
the good impression was strong enough to withstand a fair amount of
discouragement.

So he disco