"You can," was Pixie's candid answer; "I'm going to write! I've the greediest family for letters; do as I will, there's never a time when somebody isn't grumbling! Never mind me, if you want to smoke; I approve of men smoking, it keeps them quiet. Can I get you a book?" Stephen shook his head. Pat's library did not appeal to his more literary taste, and he announced himself content without further employment. "Oh, well then, _talk_! It won't disturb me," said Pixie easily; "I'll just listen or not, according as it's interesting. I'm accustomed to it with Bridgie. If you want to set her tongue going, just sit down and begin to write..." Stephen, however, had no intention of taking advantage of the permission. He was abundantly content to sit in his comfortable chair, enjoy his novel surroundings (how very cheerful and attractive a _clean_ kitchen could be!) smoke his cigarette, and watch Pixie scribbling at fever pace over innumerable pages of notepaper. There were frequent snatches of conversation, but invariably it was Pixie herself who led the way. "D'you illustrate your letters when you write them?" she asked at one time. "I always do! Realistic, you know, and saves time. At this present moment--" she drew back from the table, screwing up one eye, and holding aloft her pen in truly professional fashion--"I'm drawing _You_!" "May I see?" "You may. ... It's not _quite_ right about the chair legs, they get so mixed up. Perspective never was my strong point," said Pixie, holding out a sheet and pointing to the masterpiece in question with the end of her pen. "There!" Stephen looked and beheld a rough drawing of a preternaturally thin man, with preternatural large eyes, holding a cigarette in a hand joined to an arm which had evidently suffered severe dislocation. It was the type of drawing affected by schoolboys and girls, yet it had a distinct cleverness of its own. Despite the cart-wheel eyes and the skeleton frame there _was_ a resemblance--there was more than a resemblance, it was actually _like_, and Stephen acclaimed the fact by a shout of laughter. "I say! Could I have it? It's uncommonly good!" Pixie shook her head. "It's for Bridgie.--Ye notice the mouth? Did you know it twisted when you thought? Aren't they _nice_, narrow boots? I'll do one for you another day. ... Turn over the page! There's another of Pat, as he will look at the supper to-night." The second drawing was even rougher than the first, but again the faculty for hitting off a likeness was displayed, for Pat, reclining on a bed sloping at a perilous angle towards the floor, gazed at a fragment of mutton-bone with drooping lids and peaking brows, which represented so precisely his expression when injured, that Stephen shouted once again.