"All the more credit to me!" retorted Pixie glibly. She lifted a chair which stood at the left of the fireplace, carried it to a similar position on the right, and seated herself upon it. "This side's the best.--I must sit here, and let Mr Glynn see my splendour in full blast. Won't he be pleased?" "He'll never notice. Glynn's above hats," Pat maintained; but, nevertheless, he could not take his own eyes off the dainty grey figure, with the piquant face smiling beneath the brim of the wide hat, and that fascinating little tip of blue ending the long, grey plume. His admiration showed in his eyes, but he felt it his duty to be bracing in words. "I never thought I should live to see _you_ conceited about clothes!" "Ye _do_ get these shocks in life. It's a sad old world!" answered Pixie, and grimaced at him saucily, as she buttoned her glove. And, after all, Stephen Glynn never did notice the feather. For a ten-pound note he could not have described the next day a single article of Pixie's attire. He was aware, however, it was pleasant to walk about with Pixie O'Shaughnessy, and that passers-by seemed to envy him his post, and he was relieved that she was disfigured by none of the extremes of an ugly fashion; and, after all, nine men out of ten rarely get beyond this point. They sallied forth together, bidding Pat sleep all morning so as to be ready to talk all afternoon, and descended the gaunt stone stairs to the hall. They walked quietly, but with enjoyment in each other's company. The usual crowd blocked the Abbey door, and Stephen and Pixie stood waiting under the statue of the "third great Canning" for some time, before at last they were escorted to seats in the nave. The sermon, unfortunately, they could not hear, but the exquisite service was to both a deep delight. Remembering the conversation of the night before, Stephen dreaded lest Pixie should be one of the mistaken ones who sing persistently through an elaborate choral service, thereby nullifying its effect for those around. He was thankful to find that his fears were unnecessary, but once or twice in an unusually beautiful refrain he imagined that his ear caught the sound of a deep, rich note--a soft echo of the strain itself, evoked by an irresistible impulse. He looked inquiringly at his companion, but her head was bent and the brim of her hat concealed her face. Her stillness, her reverence appealed to his heart, for it was easy to see that she was enjoying the music not as a mere concert, but, above all things, as an accompaniment to the words themselves. One time, when he glanced at her as she rose from her knees, he surprised a glimmer of tears in her _eyes_, and the sight brought a stab to his heart. Why should she cry? What was the reason of the air of repression and strain which from time to time flitted across her face? If it were Stanor's doing. ... Stephen frowned, and resolutely turned his attention to the service.