"Why did you do it then?" Pixie demanded heartlessly, but next moment she smiled a beautiful smile. "_I know_! Thank you! Never mind about desecration. Art can look after itself, and _she_ can't! And even if that particular picture isn't beautiful, you have given me another that is, the picture of her happy face! I think," she concluded slowly, "it's going to help me.--It will be a contrast to turn, to, when I see--_that other_!" She sighed, as she invariably did, when referring to those moments on the Liverpool landing-stage, but she shook off the depression with a characteristic gesture, a defiant little shake not only of the head, but of the whole body, and cried briskly: "Now let's imagine what she does when she goes home with that cheque!" At home in the little flat, music made part of every day's programme. Pixie, seated on the hearthrug, would sing Irish ballads in a voice of crooning sweetness, she and Pat would join in duets, occasionally Stephen was persuaded to join in a trio, and presently, as the performers became "worked up" to their task, they would recall one by one performances of bygone days, and perform them afresh for the delectation of their visitor. Pixie whistled a bird-like accompaniment to Pat's deep drone; Pat, retiring bashfully beneath a sheet, whistled in his turn not only an air, but actually at the same time an accompaniment thereto, a soprano and contralto combination of sounds, so marvellous to hear that he was compelled to repeat the performance unmasked, before Stephen would believe in its authenticity. Fired by the success of their efforts, combs were then produced, and, swathed in paper, turned into wind instruments of wondrous amenability. Surprising effect of a duet upon combs! Again, when towards the end of the week the repertoire gave out, and "What shall we sing next?" to fail of an answer, Pixie revived another old "Knock" accomplishment, which was neither more nor less than impromptu recitatives and choruses. A bass recitative by Pat, on the theme--"_And she went--to find some mat-ches. And there--were--none... Tum-Tum_!" led the way to the liveliest of choruses, in which, goaded by outstretched fingers and flashing eyes, Stephen was forced to take his part. "_There were none!--there were none_!" piped Pixie in the treble. "_And she went--and she went_!" rumbled Pat in the bass. "_Matches! Matches_!" fell from Stephen's lips, on a repeated high tenor note. Through ever-increasing intricacies and elaborations ran the chorus, until at last at a signal from the soprano it approached its close, the three singers proclaimed in unison that "_there--were--none_!" and promptly fell back in their seats in paroxysms of laughter. In the course of the last twenty years, had he laughed as much as he had done within the last wonderful week? Stephen asked himself the question as he walked home the night after the singing of the "Matches" chorus, and there was little hesitation about the answer.