"It is! It is! Pixie! Pixie! Come in, come quick! Oh, you blessed little simpleton, what's the meaning of this? You'd no business to come. There's no room for you. I'm nearly well now. There's no need-- I--I--oh, _Pixie_!" and poor, tired, hungry Pat lay back weakly in his sister's arms, and came perilously near subsiding into tears. It had been hard work keeping up his pecker all these long weeks, it was so overwhelmingly home-like to see Pixie's face, and listen to her deep mellow tones... "There's _got_ to be room, me dear, for I've come to stay. How dare you be ill by yourself? It's a bad effect London has had on you to make you so close and secretive. You! Who yelled the roof down if you as much as scratched your finger! We got the note this morning--" "Glynn made me send it. He's been worrying at me for weeks. Glynn!" Pat raised his voice to a cry. "Where are you? Come in, you beggar. It's Pixie! My sister Pixie. Come and shake hands." Stephen and Pixie advanced 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."